Page 77 of Missiletoe
“Are you hurt?” I asked. Many feral animals became much wilder when injured.
“It’s not mine.” Vale rubbed the blood between his fingers and his breathing sped up. Something about it was bothering him, so I tore a strip of Mike’s shirt off and used it to wipe the blood off Vale’s fingers.
Vale snarled, but he allowed me to finish.
When his breath evened out, he whispered in a harsh voice, “Can you carry him back? Gareth gets upset when I…in public…I can’t…”
In public?
I didn’t know what that meant, but I wanted to help him with whatever crisis he was going through, so I said, “Sure. These muscles aren’t just for looking at.”
Vale snorted in response and gave me a half smile. “I’m not going to apologize for trying to kill you.”
I gave him a grin because somehow, I knew that was his way of apologizing. “Then I won’t apologize for liking you the least out of everyone in your house.”
Suddenly, Vale didn’t seem like such a bad guy after all.
I was about to take my hand away from Vale when Mike groaned and rubbed his head. The gesture caused a fresh gout of blood to run down his face. Vale stiffened again and his pupils tripled in size, leaving only a thin ring of hazel around them.
He let out a low, constant growl, and I began to stroke his wavy, dark mop of hair without thinking. What little of it that hadn’t escaped from his rough bun spilled down his back, leaving him looking like the perfect mix of a stereotypical vampire and a modern one.
“You’re a vampire, aren’t you?” I asked like an idiot.
“I’m not!” Vale snapped out violently. I hurried to pet his hair, throwing in a shoulder squeeze just in case, and sighed internally when Vale began to relax.
Mike chose the worst moment to butt in and say, “What are you doing, Paris? This guy is clearly unhinged. You need to get us out of here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mike,” I said through gritted teeth, trying to use the softest tone possible. I couldn’t stop myself from swearing, though. My mom hates swearing, but sometimes strong words are called for, and if that wasn’t one of those times, then I don’t know what is.
Vale kept his gaze away from Mike and spat out, “Unhinged? You just blew up half of my house. You’re lucky to be alive right now.”
I moved between them, doing my best to keep physical contact with Vale since it seemed to soothe him. “Vale, you can go back to the house first. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Vale got to his feet, breaking away from my hand as he did so. He turned his back to me, showcasing tense shoulders. “Don’t even think about leaving him here. I’ll come for him if you do. He can’t hide from me now that I’ve—”
I didn’t think I wanted to hear the end of Vale’s aborted sentence any more than he wanted to say it, so I decided not to ask him what he’d been about to say.
“I’ll bring him back as soon as you’re out of sight,” I promised.
Once Vale disappeared into the trees, I crouched down to check Mike for injuries, poking him harder than I should have when I found one. When he complained, I snapped, “Quiet. You did this to yourself.”
I wasn’t usually so vengeful, but my leg was killing me, and Mike had endangered my soft, sweet, defenseless bunny. It was possible that if Mike hadn’t done that and if I wasn’t growing slightly woozy from blood loss and pain, I would have thought more about what taking Mike back to Vix’s house instead of calling the police meant.
Or maybe not. He’d still endangered my animals. Only a complete monster would set fire to an animal shelter.
So I didn’t pull out my phone and dial 911.
I didn’t want to touch him because I didn’t want the shadows surrounding him to get on me, but he was bleeding up a storm. Could shadows rub off on another person?
I wasn’t particularly interested in finding out.
Eventually, I decided to bind Mike’s wounds using his shirt. Was it kindness? Or was it because I didn’t want to leave a trail of blood leading back to Vix’s home? Only the angels could know for sure. I certainly didn’t.
While I worked on patching him up, Mike began to pour out his story like a Scooby Doo villain. I didn’t even have to snatch a fake mask off his face to get it out of him.
“I love you, Paris,” Mike said, for what felt like the fifth time.
“Mmmhmm,” I responded absently as I pondered over whether or not I should try to wrap his broken ribs. He’d probably like it too much.
