Page 122 of Blood & Throttle
He grits his teeth. “Just do it.”
I press the gauze deeper, watching his body stiffen. His abs tighten under my fingers, that coil of pain threading through his spine like a fuse being lit.
“That bullet went through clean,” I mutter, inspecting the wound. “Still gonna need a stitch or two. You’re lucky.”
His voice is low, rough, and unapologetic. “I make my own luck.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me pause. I glance up, just as he opens his eyes and looks at me—flat, sure, unwavering.
“I turned into the shot.”
I freeze.
“You what?”
“He was aiming for you.”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t a bullet, like it wasn’t skin and blood and pain. Like protecting me is just instinct.
My throat tightens.
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He shrugs. Winces when the movement pulls at the wound. But his mouth curves into something sharper than a smile.
“I’d do it again.”
The air between us sharpens.
“I’d do it a hundred fucking times, Little Stray. I’ll take every hit meant for you. You don’t get to bleed while I’m still breathing.”
Something in me stutters, anger and heat and something too deep to name. I hate that he says it like it’s a rule, like it’s already been decided.
And I hate how much I want to believe it.
“That’s not noble,” I say, voice strained. “It’s fucking reckless.”
He leans in slightly, gaze burning through me.
“You think I give a shit?” he growls. “You think I’m gonna watch someone take aim at you and not step in?”
His hand finds my hip—firm, grounding.
“You’re mine to protect. Mine to bleed for. End of fucking story.”
The room feels smaller, heavier. My pulse kicks hard in my throat.
“You’re so—” I break off, teeth clenched. “God, you’re infuriating.”
“And you fucking like it.” His voice drops even lower, all gravel and heat. “Admit it. Knowing I’ll bleed for you, makes you wet.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Hate the flush crawling up my neck because I know he can feel it.
I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt and grab the suture needle.
“Lie back.”
“You’re mad at me,” he says, stretching out anyway, arms behind his head like the wound doesn’t exist.
