A whimper escapes me, and I swallow hard against the tears that build up behind my eyes as we walk farther into the building, the sound getting louder.
It makes my stomach turn.
The roar of an engine echoes in the space, the grinding of metal chains grating down to my bones.
“What is it?” I cry.
His hand migrates higher, pressing over the one I already have on my ear.
“The tone. The engines are leaving. Maybe the bus, too. Just another second.”
It cuts out, the resulting silence almost as piercing as the tone was, and I wiggle my hand just to hear the flex of pressure change.
He must take it as a sign to let me go because his hand drops down to my ribs and I wriggle away from the hold.
Stepping away from him, I suck back a breath in hopes of settling the nausea that rolls over my stomach.
“You need … um …” I swallow down the burning at the back of my throat and wrap my arms around my middle. “Like bandages and cleaner.”
I head toward the kitchen and start poking around the cabinets until Tristen’s chuckle, then subsequent hiss, has me stopping.
“You gonna patch me up, bubbles?”
He manages to make it sound … dirty, even though he’s clearly in pain.
My cheeks flame.
And it’s when I turn to look at him, really look at him, with his wild hair and deep irises, his tattooed throat and pierced nose, high cheekbones and square jaw, that all the blood registers.
There’s an older smear across his cheek that’s cracking and coated in dirt. A fresh red trail runs down his face over top of that, like his cheek busted open all over again. It runs down his neck and across his scarred brow. All over his shirt.
My stomach rolls.
I open my mouth to ask for the bathroom, but words are the last thing that come out.
Chapter 36
Tristen
I thought I wasready for what quip was about to come out of his mouth at my snarky comment. I am anything but prepared when it turns out to be vomit. The projectile kind that makes it five feet before splattering all over the smooth concrete floor.
I jump back just in time to miss most of it.
But when he cries and hunches over, going through the motions all over again, I rush forward.
“Aw fuck, bubbles.”
I try my best to smooth his hair back from his face, but my hands are caked with dried blood and dirt, catching the strands.
He heaves again.
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt sick?”
There’s a garbled noise that gets cut off by a retch so deep, he falls to his knees.
Stupidly, I follow him down and land right in a warmth I don’t wanna think about.
It feels too familiar, and my chest gives a mighty thump, reminding me of my own injuries with its pain-filled pulse.
