Page 40 of Blood and Thorns
Unable to look at him, I closed my eyes, which was arguably worse, because now I could only concentrate on the way he touched me. On his fingers in my hair, stroking, brushing as he washed.
There was a scratch against my skin, and my eyes flew open to find him washing me with a cloth. His fingers kept going back to my cheek, and then to my ribs just beneath my left breast where I was sure there would be a bruise. One of the men had hit me, but I didn’t remember who.
It didn’t matter now, considering they were all dead.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not even sure what I was apologising for.
His dark blue eyes met mine, but he still didn’t say anything.
The silence kept stretching, vibrating with an unacknowledged awareness. My body was still too warm, my thighs pressing together in a subtle, futile attempt to ease some of the pressure building there. A slow, pulsing ache that had no right and made no sense given the circumstance.
Why the hell was I turned on?
I was confused, frustrated with my body because this definitely wasn’t the right time. It would never be the right time. And yet, my body didn’t seem to care. It respondedlike it had a mind of its own, completely at odds with the tension tightening in my chest.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know they were–”
“Give me your hands.” Sebastian reached for my arm.
I was weirdly relieved to hear his voice, because then maybe he wasn’t as furious as he was earlier. Holding up my hands, I tensed when he carefully cleaned the grazes with the cloth. I tried to hold back my grimace, the pain stinging.
Sebastian nodded to himself, then finished washing us both before he turned the shower off and reached for a towel. He dried me first, far gentler than I expected of him before he dried himself. His cuts looked worse, still seeping as he left me standing in his bathroom while he returned to his room.
Wiping across the condensation on the mirror, I checked my face and the small scratch that would likely be gone within the week. My body was a little bruised, but otherwise okay. I didn’t actually think Lennon would’ve done anything, his friends there as nothing more than a threat.
Gabriel’s ready to forgive you, but only if you beg.
Gabriel could go fuck himself.
Sebastian appeared in the reflection behind me wearing a pair of grey jogging bottoms and nothing else. Before I could react he handed me a T-shirt. I put it on, realising from its size that it must be his. It was long enough to reach my knees, the fabric smelling faintly like him.
Sebastian stalked back out of the bathroom, and I followed, finding he’d lit the fire at the foot of his bed, a great leather armchair facing it. A table had been set up beside him, as well as two cups of steaming tea. Did that mean I was supposed to stay?
The smiley older lady must have been in, because her silver tray was there, as was a medical kit. Sebastian hadalready taken a seat in the great armchair, using an antiseptic wipe to dab at the largest slice across his chest.
I hesitantly approached, but he didn’t even look up.
“Let me.” I slowly reached for the wipe, but he pulled it away with a slight grumble. He didn’t seem to like touch, not unless he initiated it. “Please, let me help.”
His eyes narrowed, but he finally relented when I dropped to my knees beside him. But then he watched me like a hawk, his body like granite as if he was forcing himself to remain still. I gently cleaned the slice, careful not to touch anywhere else.
“Thank you,” I whispered against the crackling of the flames. “You know, for helping me.”
“You shouldn’t have run.” Sebastian’s voice was deeper, his anger still evident.
“I don’t like violence.” The way he’d found me in the crowd had caught me off guard, and I’d panicked. “But I wasn’t running away.”
Sebastian still hasn’t relaxed, his fingers curling onto the armchair so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if he left indents. His muscles tensed, causing one of the other cuts to bleed.
“You should call a doctor,” I murmured.
“No.”
“Are you telling me the great Sebastian Devereaux doesn’t have a doctor on retainer?” I clicked my tongue, looking up to find him unamused.
No sense of humour. Noted.
“The cuts aren’t deep enough to need stitches, and another scar isn’t going to make much of a difference.” He delivered the statement with such a lack of emotion, I froze.
