It doesn't work.
I wrap my fingers around his hand and lift the whole heavy weight of his arm off me as I shuffle out from under it. I hold my breath when the mattress moves around, but he's only rolling to face the other direction. My bare feet hit the floorboards, but there is no sound. I tiptoe my way over to stare at his gun.
It looks heavy.
Like, I'd struggle to hold it up and point it at someone. I've never given much thought to the weight of a gun. In the movies everyone can hold one up—even the children. But staring at Max's gun, I think I could probably point it and shoot immediately, but if I was hesitant or holding up a bank or threatening someone...Oh my gawd, why am I even on this train of thought?
I shake my head and swallow hard. Stepping backwards, my feet suddenly get caught in his clothes on the floor and I nearly trip. I lean down and scoop them all up. After carrying them into the ensuite, I drop them into his clothes basket.
All the warmth and colour drain from my face.
There are blood splatters all over his shirt.
He's hurt.
My chest tightens so hard that I want to gasp for air. Rushing to his side, I switch the bedside lamp on and pull back the covers, terrified that he's... perfect.
Clean.
My hands tremble on the blanket. I stare at his bare torso as it rises and falls, then glance up to catch his eyes open and fixed on mine. When I jump backwards, he lunges for my wrist and pulls me onto the mattress. He rolls me beneath him, pinning me. Inadvertently pressing my palm to my throat, I feel my pulse thrashing beneath my fingers.
A hard, sad, and determined gaze nails me to the mattress. "What are you doing?"
"I thought you were hurt," I barely whisper. Despite my unsteady voice, I'm not scared. I know he'd never hurt me. He's drunk and naked on top of me. His penis is pressed to my thigh and I'm startled, aroused, and concerned, but not afraid.
"What made you—" He stops talking and looks back over his shoulder at the gun. He squints at it as if he's confused by its presence. "Fuck," he hisses.
"It's okay." I touch his cheek, drawing his eyes back to me. "I saw it."
His stare penetrates me. "Yeah. And?"
I gaze into the defensive grey eyes of the man I love. "The blood on your shirt. I thought you were hurt. I panicked."
His lips twitch. "You were worried about me?" He lets out a cynical chuckle. "That's the first thing that came to your mind? Even after you saw the gun?"
"Yes," I admit.
He presses his forehead to mine on a sigh. "You know I'm a bad guy, right? I thought you knew that."
I kiss his lips chastely and we close our eyes. I cup either side of his neck and rub my forehead against his. The feelingsbetween us are thick and overwhelming. "You're many things, Max Butcher, but bad isn’t one of them."
He laughs and it's sad and dubious, and his tone forces a sob from my throat.
"I watched a man die tonight," he says smoothly.
Tears fall down my temples. More pool in my ears. I'm not sure I truly register his words or maybe I'm so full of him, I no longer have regard for others. Or maybe I'm selfish. Or maybe I've just been waiting for something like this to happen and now that it has, I'm somewhat prepared. I remember our conversation in Bali.
"Do you hurt people?"
"Not people like you. Only people like me."
"But people like you have people like me who love them."
"Oh God." I whimper."Are you okay?"
"There you go again... Yes, Cassidy.I'mokay."
Even though I know he's physically okay, I'm not so sure his soul is settled. I can feel a darkness in him tonight. In the way he breathes. In his taut body.
