It’s the first night I decide to sleep in my designated room, after what happened in the bathroom with Lorcán, it just didn’t feel right to be in his bed with how angry he is. I don’t even know if he came home or not.
The longer I stay in this room, the more frustrated I get.
Why couldn’t my scent matches be normal men, not ones who get shot in the leg or like to fight for a living? What if Lorcánwas my scent match, and that first day he came to work for my father, I recognized it, and we started this pack under different circumstances?
It’s all a bunch of what-ifs and hypotheticals. But there’s only one reality: everyone in Vegas who matters knows I’m part of pack O’Brien, and there’s nothing I can do about it, even if I wanted to.
I’m tossing and turning in bed when I finally decide to get up and get something to drink. I haven’t been downstairs by myself since that night at dinner. I wince when I think about it, for too many reasons to name.
My footsteps are quiet as I trail down the stairs and through the hallways until I get to the kitchen. I open the fridge, which casts a light over me and the island behind me when a deep voice startles me.
“You didn’t stay the whole fight. Thought you’d like seeing me get my ass kicked,” Finn says.
My hand flies to my racing heart as I turn around and look at him. He looks like fucking shit. His face is swollen, dry blood crusting over some parts of his face. His battered knuckles are circled around a tumbler of alcohol. When his heavy-lidded, glossy eyes meet mine, I realize he’s drunk.
“It was all a bit too much for me.”
“Mmm.”
“Do you…” I consider turning around, minding my own fucking business, and going back to bed, but my bleeding heart won’t let me. “Do you want me to help you clean those wounds?”
“The Italian mob doctor teach you that?”
I roll my eyes and go to walk around the island when his hand grabs my wrist.
“I’ll get the kit,” he relents. He groans with the effort he uses to get off the stool. He opens a cabinet, pulling out a large kit of medical supplies, and leads me into the living room.
Finn plops down on the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and I start with his hand. Using disinfectant on his knuckles, letting some just air dry while covering others up with bandaids.
The Alpha doesn’t look at me, he just rests his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you need me to look at your ribs?”
“They’re just bruised,” he says softly to the ceiling.
“Alright, then, let me see your face.”
He takes a few deep breaths and sighs dramatically before pushing his head up from the back of the couch to look at me.
It’s hard for me to look at him with all the damage to his face, but he just stares at me with those deep-green, menacing eyes. Finn looks at me like I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and I don’t know how to handle it.
How do I irritate him so much by just existing? He breathes through his mouth and not his nose, yet the damage to his nose looks minimal.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask him as I clean off the dried blood.
“I don’t hate you.”
“You act like you hate me. You locked me in a room for three fucking days.”
“I don’t hate you,” he repeats more sternly.
“You have a really weird way of showing it.”
“If anything, we have something in common. We both hate me.”
I stop cleaning his face for a moment to look at him,reallylook at him. “I don’t hate you.”
He laughs and winces from the pain that’s caused when he shakes his head. “Well, that makes one of us.”
