“I can't promise that,” I say honestly.
“My god, you're gonna kill me, woman.”
“No,” I whisper against his chest as we step into the cool night air. “I'm going to be your life. Your reason.”
“Right…” His voice breaks. “You already are, love. Always have been.”
We stand in the darkness, holding each other. Two broken people who somehow became whole together.
He's a monster. He's a murderer.
But he's mine.
And I will never let him go.
Chapter Thirty
Bianca
Caitlin meetsus at the door. “We'll go to the guest room on the first floor for now,” she says, glancing at Ashland's leg. “So you don't have to deal with stairs. My god, he took a proper beating, didn't he?”
“Gave worse than he took,” I tell her honestly.
“Aye, he did,” Tiernan agrees, helping guide Ashland to the bathroom while I hover, my hands shaking.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at the closed toilet seat.
Ashland obeys without argument, which tells me exactly how much pain he's in. He doesn't argue or joke, just sits down heavily and closes his eyes. Tiernan taps pain relievers into Ashland’s palm, and he swallows them dry.
Tiernan claps him on the shoulder. “You did well, lad,” he says, then leaves us alone.
I turn on the water in the sink, letting it run warm while I gather supplies. Someone has left clean towels and a first aid kit on the counter. My hands are trembling as I wet a washcloth.
“Bianca,” he says softly, “I can do this. I'm fine. The doctor’s coming.”
“You're not fine,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “You're covered in blood and bruises, and god knows what else. Just shut up and let me help you.”
His lips twitch, almost forming a smile, and he winks at me.
I start with his face, gently wiping away the dried, crusted blood. The gash above his eyebrow is deep—it might scar, and it probably needs stitches. His lip is split, his jaw already turning purple, and there's a cut on his cheekbone that’s still seeping. He doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, just watches me with those storm-gray eyes.
Blood wells onto the washcloth as I work.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
I pause, the washcloth hovering near his temple. “For what?”
“For making you see that. For?—”
“Don't.” I press my finger gently against his mouth, careful of his split lip. “Donotapologize for protecting me. I went there of my own accord.”
“I know,” he says darkly. “I noticed. And you aredamnlucky I'm injured right now.”
I swallow hard. “I know that too.”
He sits quietly, and the corner of his lips turns up slightly.
“Listen,” I tell him. “Don’t apologize for being what you are. I chose this. I chose you.”
