When he reached for the bandage again, his fingers brushed my ribs, and I flinched. Not from pain, because of the way it felt. My pulse jumped, and his did too. His head lifted, eyes catching mine.
The air between us shifted, thickened. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm.
“Hold still,” he whispered, though his voice wasn’t steady anymore.
“I am.”
“No, you’re not,” Simon said.
He was right. My body was trembling. Not from blood loss, not from fear, but something I didn’t want to name.
He finished tying the last knot, then sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint drip of blood from the feral’s corpse, ticking like a metronome.
“You should go,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Before more show up. The scent of blood will draw them.”
His gaze flicked toward the door, then back to me. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
I huffed out a dry laugh. “Didn’t realize vampires were so noble these days.”
“I’m not noble,” he said. “Just not what you think.”
His words hung there, sharp as a blade. I wanted to tell him he was wrong.
I’d seen his kind tear through families, drain them dry, leave nothing but whispers and ash. That no amount of trembling hands or soft eyes could change what he was. But the words wouldn’t come.
“What’s your name anyway?” Simon asked.
“Kit,” I found myself answering.
Why did I tell him my name? Whatever. I found myself watching him, the way the faint light caught the curve of his throat. My pulse stuttered. I looked away fast.
“Kit,” he said softly. My name sounded strange in his mouth.
“What?” I demanded.
“You’re still bleeding.”
He reached forward again, and before I could argue, his thumb brushed the line of blood at my jaw, where a cut from the fight had started to dry.
The touch was feather-light, reverent almost. My breath hitched despite myself. He froze. Our eyes met again, and something cracked open between us, raw and unfamiliar.
His lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. His hand dropped away.
“I should clean up the rest,” he said finally, voice low.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Yeah. You do that.”
He rose, moving with that strange mix of grace and exhaustion, and crossed to the sink. The water ran red when he washed his hands.
I watched the line of his shoulders, the tension there, and wondered just for a moment what it would feel like to touch that softness, to find warmth in something I’d been taught to destroy.
I shut that thought down fast.
When he turned back, he was wiping his hands on another strip of cloth. Simon hesitated, then crouched beside me again.
“You should rest,” he murmured.
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
