Page 35 of Killaney Blood
I sit up, legs swinging over the side of the bed. The hallway to the front door stretches like it's longer than usual. Everything feels hazy, like I've stepped into another version of my apartment.
The peephole in my door has never been that large before, has it?
When I look through it, Declan's face fills the distorted circle, his features twisted with pain.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
He's a mess.
Split lip. Knuckles raw and bleeding. The way he's holding himself suggests bruised ribs, maybe worse. There's a dark stain on his shirt that could be blood.
"What the fuck happened, Declan?" I gasp.
He gives me a small smile. "You should see the other guy."
I open the door wider, and he stumbles forward. I catch him, slinging his arm over my shoulder. He's heavy, solid muscle that radiates heat. I feel the dampness of his shirt against my skin.
"Sit there," I say, pointing to the single kitchen chair I own.
He drops into it with a grunt, and I'm already moving, grabbing supplies from the cabinet. I lay out gauze, antiseptic, sutures, scissors, anything I think I might need. The motions are so familiar I could do them blindfolded.
"It looks like you reopened all your cuts," I say, inspecting his face. "Eyebrow's bleeding again. So is your lip."
He winces when I press against his side.
"Bruised ribs too?"
He shrugs. "Shit happens."
"You're an idiot."
I wet a cloth and clean the blood from his mouth. His lips are fuller than I remember noticing. My fingers hover for half a second too long.
I pull away and toss the cloth into the sink.
I move to his ribs next, eyeing the dark stain on his shirt. "Take this off. I need to see how bad it is."
Declan's perfect lips curve into a smile. "Is that the only thing you want me to take off?"
My hand finds the scissors. "Don't test me."
He flinches, eyes on the scissors. "Jesus, woman. What's with you and sharp blades?"
He tries to pull the shirt over his head but stops halfway, a pained grunt escaping him. I step closer.
"Hold still," I order, and start cutting.
The fabric parts easily, revealing his torso inch by inch. Smooth skin stretched over defined muscles, marked with tattoos I can't quite make out in the dim light. There's a large, darkening bruise spreading across his left ribs.
My mouth goes dry and I can't seem to swallow.
I clear my throat and press gently near the forming bruise.
"Here?" I ask.
He winces. "Yeah, okay, okay."
"Alright," I say, trying to keep my voice professional. "I've got you."
