He does a squinty thing as if he trying to focus on something. “Barely. How long have you lived here?”
“Six months.” I had to move when my ex kicked me out, so the woman he’d been cheating with could take my place. How long until she’s replaced? “Why does that matter?”
“Because the gyfnosau, or any fae creature from any of the realms, can cross a weak home boundary.” He pulls off black gloves and shoves them in his back pocket.
A nervous titter escapes. “I thought only vampires need an invitation into a home.”
He gives me a confused look. “What do you think vampires are?”
I stare and blink, unable to process his words for a moment. Is he telling me that vampires are real?
I don’t need to add more monsters to my list. Most I’ve seen only in passing, and as soon as I see something, I duck my head and turn away so they wouldn’t know. I don’t why I did that, but I figured that if they knew I could see them something bad would happen to me. Turns out my instinct was right.
“All fae need an invitation to enter a home. Your barrier is weak. I’d have been able to cross even if you hadn’t invited me in.” He smiles and I remember the way his lips felt on mine. Sweet, like warm honey on fresh bread. Like home.
I look away and edge out of reach. “The bathroom is this way.”
I flick on the bright light. The white tiles reflect it back at me. The bathroom is why I took this place. It was new, well newish. Now all the mirrors and light made it seem too clinical.
The room seems to shrink when he steps in. Black T, shoulder holster and big pistols, blood stained jeans and boots made for kicking monsters. He’s the kind of guy I always avoid. I don’t need his kind of trouble. Yet my heart quickens in excitement and I want to peel the clothes off his body and taste his lips again.
Focus on the wound.
I glance at his thigh, where I’d jammed the key into him. His jeans are stained red and I wonder how much blood he’s lost. Not enough to make him faint, but more than enough to make a mess.
My gaze flicks between his face and his jeans—I try really hard not to notice the bulge of his fly. I’m going to be a nurse, so I need to be professional.
“You’re going to need to take your jeans off.” My cheeks heat. “Or I could cut them, make the hole bigger.”
But he’s already undoing his belt and shucking his jeans down to his ankles like I’m supposed to sew him up while he’s standing. I could, but I’d be kneeling, and he’d tower over me, and if he faints, I’ll be squashed, and he’ll smash his head open.
“Um…you’re going to need to sit.” I point at the bathtub, the real selling point of this apartment. It certainly wasn’t for the neighborhood, but it was cheap and in my price range and closer to college. I’d started working at the yoga studio not long after and quit working at the place across town.
He sits, jeans around his ankles, knees spread. His thighs are thick and muscled, one is leaking blood far quicker than I like. He needs proper care, not me.
“I think you should go to the hospital.”
“I just need something to stop the bleeding for a few hours. I heal fast. If I didn’t, I’d be dead already as you nicked something vital.”
I manage to keep my gaze on his face. “I thought you were kidnapping me. You have the same eyes as the monsters.” I pull out a suture kit and bandage from the cupboard.
“So do you.”
“I don’t.” But I check my reflection in the mirror to be sure.
I don’t look like I’ve survived a monster-dog attack. My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are bright like I’ve been for a run or just been fucked. I swallow hard and concentrate on preparing to sew up the hole I made in him.
“You won’t see them in yourself, but when one creature of faery sees another, there’s a glimmer. A revealing of our true selves that we can’t hide.”
I shake my head as I wash my hands and pull on gloves. He’s wrong. “I’m not fae. I was born here.”
“You can be fae and born here. You saw the gyfnosau, that alone is a tell that you are fae. Add in the way they hunted you…”
I rip open the package and wipe his thigh with antiseptic—my keys are probably filthy. He hisses, but otherwise doesn’t flinch.
I kneel before him and realize I’m only a few inches, and a thin layer of black cotton boxer briefs, from his junk. I don’t even know his name. I can’t stitch him without that, it seems rude to cause him more pain and to be this close without knowing something more about him.
“What’s your name?” I thread the needle. “Or is that something you can’t share?” I’m sure I read in fairy tales that the fae never give their real name, but maybe that’s a lie.
“Lorcan. You?”
“Jenna. This will hurt.”
“I doubt it will hurt more than getting stabbed with a key,” he says dryly.
I put my hand on his thigh and draw the edges of the wound together. It only needs two stitches. “Ready?”
“Always.”
