“Get over here. Now.”
“Emma—“
“Can you drive? Should I call an ambulance?” The worry in her voice cuts through the darkness.
“I'm not that hurt. I can drive.”
“Then why are you still talking to me? Get here.”
I laugh. It hurts. I don't care.
“Yes, ma'am.”
I hand the phone back to Logan through the window. He looks at my face, sees something there. Nods.
“Go let her fuss over you.” He winks.
I kick the bike to life and pull into the night, heading toward the only person who makes me feel like I might still be worth something.
CHAPTER 17
THE WOUND
EMMA
I openthe door to find Kai filling the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His leather jacket is torn at the shoulder, blood on his shirt.
“Hey.” His voice is rough, tired. He tries to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Get in here.” I move aside, holding the door wider.
He moves slowly, favoring his left side. I reach for his jacket, ease it off his shoulders. He clenches his jaw but doesn't make a sound. The leather falls away, revealing blood soaking through his shirt at the forearm.
“Sit down.” I point to the couch. “Now.”
He doesn't argue. He lowers himself onto my secondhand sofa, wincing as his shoulder hits the cushion.
Blood on his shirt, on his hands, smeared across his knuckles. Some dried, some still dark and wet. My stomach lurches, but I shove the panic down. Panic doesn't help anyone. I learned that a long time ago.
“Where's your first aid kit?” he asks, like he's going to patch himself up.
“Stay there.” I'm already heading to the bathroom. “Don't move.”
My first aid kit is pathetic. A few bandages, some antiseptic wipes, a half-empty tube of Neosporin. I grab a towel and the ice pack from my freezer.
When I come back, Kai's leaning his head against the cushion, eyes closed. The sharp line of his jaw, the stubble coming in, the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. He looks younger like this. Vulnerable.
“I can feel you staring.”
I jump. “I wasn't staring. I was assessing.”
One eye opens, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Assessing what?”
“The damage.”
I set everything on the coffee table, kneel in front of him. His knuckles are raw and swollen. The cut on his forearm still seeping through a makeshift bandage, a jagged line running from wrist to elbow.
“Kai...”
