I should head straight back to my condo alone, but—knowing damn well it’s a bad idea—I step forward, cuff my fingers around her arm, and take her with me.
I don’t know what’s happening, but touching her now feels different. It’s charged with a different kind of energy.
The rag wrapped around her hand is soaked with blood, little red dots splashing against my tiles, carpet, and hardwood floor as I drag her behind me without a word.
She needs a proper dressing. I have no idea where her first aid kit is, so it’s easier to take her back to my place.
Rationalizing won’t help you, man.
I’m aware. Hyperaware that I’ve been rationalizing around her since day one, but so far, I’m failing miserably at hate.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the couch once I’ve closed the door behind us. I grab a hoodie from my wardrobe, handing it over, knowing damn well it’s the second one I’ve given her within two weeks. “You want a drink? I’ve got wine, beer—”
“I could do with something stronger,” she admits quietly, pushing her arms into the sleeves.
The only stronger alcohol I have is half a bottle of gin Vivienne left here after our post-unpacking impromptu housewarming party.
I whip up a gin and tonic and grab the first aid box.
“You don’t have to do this,” Blair says when I hand her the glass, taking a seat beside her.
“I know.” I wish I didn’t feel the compelling need to help, but there’s no stopping as I perch a cushion on my knees, place her hand on it and carefully unwrap the rag, dropping it onto the coffee table. “You’ve not cleaned it,” I say, spotting a few shards glistening in the long cuts. “Drink.”
She does. As she takes the first sip, I grab tweezers and pluck the glass, my stomach churning every time she hisses.
I hate her. I know I do, but I’m not the kind to get a kick out of knowing she’s in pain.
“Crystal glass?” I ask, dabbing the excess blood so I can see what I’m doing.
“Among other things.”
I pull out the last piece, the longest of the four spread on the coffee table, then grab a washcloth, cleaning around the cuts as best I can. It doesn’t look like she needs stitches, so the wound-closing strips I have should work fine, as long as we stop the bleeding, otherwise they won’t stick.
“Bottoms up, B,” I order, fetching a wooden spoon.
“Why?”
“You’ll need all the anesthetic you can get. Drink.”
Once she downs the last of her gin and tonic, cringing and shaking off the alcohol kick, I give her the spoon.
“I need to put pressure on the cuts to stop the bleeding. It’ll hurt like a motherfucker for a moment, so bite down hard.”
She sticks the handle in her mouth, sinking her white teeth into the wood, and nods once, her eyes closing.
A quiet whimper is the only sound she makes, but it’s enough to chill the blood in my veins as I press a fresh gauze to the cuts, not daring to look up in case more tears stream down her cheeks.
I count down from one hundred before peeking under the gauze to check. “That should do it.”
She spits out the spoon, placing it on the coffee table, the handle bearing her toothmarks and my mind goes straight to imagining those marks on my shoulders.
“How do you know this?” she asks.
“What? First aid? Six brothers, four nephews, and...” I push a long breath down my nose. “Mia. She has a clotting deficiency, so stopping the bleeding is a priority whenever she cuts herself. You learn a lot when you’ve got no other choice.”
Tucking a few loose strands of hair over her ear, she gently touches her hand to mine as it wipes the dried blood from her other one. “Thank you.”
“I’m not done yet. I’ll get you another drink and you need a proper dressing.”
