Page 9 of Alphas Like Us
“I’m not leaving,” I sayseriously.
Maximoff isn’t an idiot. He sees my trauma bag. He knows I’m here because of the phone call he made to my father. I don’t need to spoon-feed him thisinformation.
But we’re at a slight standstill because he’s not forthcoming about his injury. I examine him from about four feet away. He usually has a tan complexion, but he’s lost color in his face. And he’ssweating.
“You look pale,” I tellhim.
He blinks slowly. “Thanks.”
I tilt my head. “That wasn’t acompliment.”
“I was beingsarcastic.”
My brows rise, a smile at my lips. “Iknow.”
Maximoff grimaces and rests his hands on his head like communicating with me is brutal. The times we talk, I like irritating the shit out of him, but today’s different. He’s mypatient.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls under hisbreath.
“Moffy—”
“I’m fine,” he says strongly, his hands dropping to his sides. “If I thought I wasn’t, I would’ve gone to the ER. Alright, you can go do whatever the fuck you do on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m sorry you had to come up to Cambridge.” His apology sounds extremelysincere.
“Don’t be,” I say. “I’m supposed to behere.”
Righthere.
Rightnow.
This was my choice. I could’ve told my father no, but I saidyesto this call. To Maximoff, and I’m not leaving until I’m sure he’ssafe.
He cracks a knuckle and stares off, lost inthought.
I wait and comb a hand through my dyed hair. A few pictures line his desk, most of siblings or with his best friend Jane. I recognize one group photo from St. Thomas with all the families squished together, a summer vacation. The picture leaked on the internet a few yearsback.
“So you’re not leavingthen?”
I look back at him, his attention focused on me again. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong, and man, you don’t need to describewhyanything happened. I can work with a bare-bones story.” Not having the full picture will irritate me a little bit—shit, normally it wouldn’t. But I’m already craving to know more abouthim.
I skim Moffy in a short once-over and lookaway.
He’s MaximoffHale.
I almost laugh to myself. Fuck, he’s too pure. Too wholesome. And I just got out of a long-term relationship—there are reasons I wouldn’t. So many more reasons that hewouldn’t.
Notnow.
Possibly notever.
“I cut my leg,” he suddenly says, but the words come out slowly like thick tar on histongue.
I eye his jeans while his rigid stance hardly shifts. “Where?”
“Mythigh.”
“That’s a problem,” I say easily. “Your femoralartery—”
“I would’ve bled out hours ago if I cut my femoral artery. I’mokay.”
