Jesus Christ.
First the thought that he could murder someone to make Ciaran smile, and now physical violence because... because what? Fraser had been about to happy-tackle Ciaran?
“The fuck is wrong with me?”
“It’s okay,” Ciaran whispered. He turned to Fraser. “You’re okay?”
Fraser nodded, his smile long gone. “Uh, yeah. Guess I won’t be roughhousing with you anymore, though. Jeez.”
“I didn’t mean it,” Sawyer tried. “I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing until... until...”
Ciaran knelt in front of him and slid his hand along Sawyer’s jaw. “It’s okay. You couldn’t help it. It’s not your fault.”
How the fuck wasn’t it his fault?
Then he realised...
Oh.
“Is this the bond thing? Is that what made me do it? Because the thought of anyone touching you or hurting you...” Sawyer shook his head. “This is fucked up.”
Ciaran frowned and leaned back on his haunches. He looked smaller, somehow. He gave a single defeated nod. “I’m sorry.”
Seeing him sad was worse than thinking Fraser was any kind of threat. “No, no,” he said quickly, trying to get his hands out of the blankets. He cupped Ciaran’s jaw, then touched his neck, his shoulders, and back to his face again. “Ciaran, it’s not your fault.”
His copper eyes met Sawyer’s, so freaking sad. “If it weren’t for me...”
Sawyer shook his head, trying to stop whatever this was.
If he thought having ideations of murder was bad, this was so, so much worse.
The ache, the anguish, was a physical pain like a burning lump in the middle of his chest.
He put the heel of his hand to his sternum. “What the fuck is happening now? Why does this hurt?” He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
At all.
No matter how hard he tried, the searing ache was only getting worse, and it was getting harder to breathe.
Ciaran’s eyes scanned him, his palm pressed over Sawyer’s heart, and he turned to Fraser. “Get Kellan,” he barked. “Now.”
Chapter
Sixteen
CIARAN
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong with Sawyer. His heart was hammering so hard, Ciaran could feel it, and he was pale, clammy, and a little delirious.
“You’ll be okay,” Ciaran whispered. He kept his hand pressed to Sawyer’s cheek, holding eye contact—those perfect ice-blue eyes—as if that would keep them both calm and centred.
It was almost working when Kellan rushed through the door, his med kit in hand. “Sawyer,” he said, almost knocking Ciaran out of the way to take his place. “Look at me.”
Sawyer drew his gaze from Ciaran to Kellan, blinked a few times, and then his gaze went straight back to Ciaran. He peeled an arm out of the blankets, searching for Ciaran’s hand.
Ciaran was quick to take it.
