“At work.”
Scepticism invades Mal’s already intense gaze. “If this happened in a hospital, why do you look like you’ve escaped the fucking apocalypse?”
“Because most doctors are shit nurses.”
Someone—Sol—chuckles from somewhere beyond Mal, but I can’t see him. The mood Mal’s brought to this has widened his athletic frame, blocking everyone but him from my field of vision, and I’m still bleeding, the mess Jack’s cleaned up reviving in a warm ooze down my face.
I reach for a fresh wad of gauze, but Mal’s already there, shifting to open up the room as he beats me to the first aid kit.
He picks up where Jack left off, working with skilled precision to clean me up all over again and tape the wound shut.
His competence shouldn’t turn me on.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t.
And I don’t mind the discomfort of the gash in my head. The blood. Or the stinging pressure of the tape. But he’s standing between my legs, his cedar-wood scent all over me, and I’m not prepared for how dizzying it is to endure this shit around other people.
Around Jack.
Oscar.
Sol, who’s watching us—watchingMal—with more scrutiny than I can withstand when I’m this frayed.
“When did this happen?”
I tear my gaze from where Sol has poured himself onto the other disused counter. Meet Mal’s head on and I’m unprepared for that too. “What?”
“When?” he repeats.
I do the maths between catching the metal stick with my head, the junior doctor’s piss poor attempt to treat me, and the messy journey home. “An hour ago. Stop fucking staring at me.”
Now he’s done patching me up, I find the will to shove my way out of his orbit. At least I try and find myself relearning how uncompromising Mal is when his jaw sets like granite.
“Move.”
Mal ignores me and says something too quick and fast for me to grasp.
Jack steps out, leaving us with Oscar’s impenetrable poker face and Sol’s open book ofwhat the fuck is going on?
He has questions, I can tell. And he’s drunk enough to ask them. But for the second time tonight, I’m saved by an uninvited intervention.
Movement at the back door has Mal whipping around, putting himself between the rest of us and whoever’s stupid enough to take him on.
Or more than capable of it, as it turns out.
Folk Whitlock.
And he’s not alone. Another Rebel King lurks behind him, and on point to how my evening is going, it’s the face I’m least in the mood for.
Saint Malone: Cam O’Brian’s shadow and quiet as hell, but so preternaturally perceptive he can probably tell I let Mal bang me against the shower wall two nights ago by sniffing the fucking air.
It’d be easy to hate him if I didn’t love him.
Lucky for me, he’s also kinda shy. He stays outside, and Folk inclines his head, inviting Mal to step out with him.
Mal nods.
