I take a hard step toward him, but Ayden’s voice cuts through. “Leave, Michael.”
He tuts. “I’m reporting you to the medical board.”
The comment is meaningless, I know Ayden’s done nothing wrong, but the audacity makes my blood boil. If he weren’t holding that gun, I might already have killed him. And maybe I’d like to believe I have some morals, that I couldn’t go through with it… but hetouchedAyden. Hurt him. I saw the blood. Saw him pinning him down. Heard him scream for this bastard to get out.
Boyfriend? Pfft. More like missing ex, if I have anything to say about it.
After another tense standoff, Michael steps back, circling around the car.
I stride to the vehicle and yank open the passenger door just as he slides into the driver’s seat. He clutches the gun tight to his chest, eyes narrowing as I lean in.
“If you ever come here again, I’ll kill you. Speak to him again, I will kill you. If I so much as suspect you’re thinking about him? Guess what—I’ll kill you. See a fucking trend here?”
“Threatening a police officer?” he snarls. “Guess you’re both idiots.”
“Do you understand?!” I shout.
“Get out.” He jerks the gun toward me, eyes hard. “We’re donehere.”
I want to smash my fist into his smug face one last time, but instead, I lean back and slam the car door shut.
He pulls forward, makes a hard U-turn, and peels off our property. Only when the sound of his tires fade do I turn and meet Ayden’s gaze.
I can’t quite place what’s in his eyes.
Fear. Pain. A hollow distance between his body and his mind. He’s falling, even while standing upright. His skin has gone pale—paler even than when he was sick.
When he takes a step back, I fear he’ll completely run away from me. His movement jolts me from my stillness, and I stride toward him.
The second his gaze starts to drift away, I say, “Ayden, wait.” I take the three stairs in a single bound. He slips inside, but I’m right behind him before he can head for the staircase.
I don’t touch him. Instead, I move in front of him, blocking the way. The blood streaking his temple makes my hands clench and unclench.
I’m opening my mouth to saysomething, when he speaks first.
“Are you okay?” His voice trembles. “I’m so?—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I exhale, the tightness loosening in my chest. “AmIokay? Areyouokay?”
I raise my hand toward his face, deliberately slow, watching for a reaction—a flinch, a recoil, anything that might show he’s still shaken. But he doesn’t move. He only looks at my hand, then back up at me.
“Physically, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.”
I’m calling bullshit. The bruise is already forming, and I’m close enough to see the pulse in his temple beating. I curl my fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to touch him.
“Can I clean you up?”
Saturday night taught me Ayden fears being treated as fragile. Like he’s terrified of falling into some stereotype—that one of us has to be the masculine, and the other the feminine. I’ve never once seen him as the latter. Not ever. But something tells me he’s been conditioned to feel that way.
When he doesn’t answer, I soften my voice.
“Can I?”
I watch his throat bob before he nods.
I lead him into the kitchen, then head to the bathroom for the first aid kit, my phone balanced between my ear and shoulder as it starts to ring.
“Hello, Sapphire Valley security.”
