Page 7 of Canvas’ Muse

He's watching me now, his eyes unfocused but trying so hard to stay alert. The bandage I wrapped around his shoulder is already showing spots of blood seeping through, but it's not the rapid spread that would indicate I'm losing the battle. The pressure is working. For now.

"Stay with me," I tell him again, checking his pulse. Elevated but not dangerously so. "Keep talking. Tell me about the worst tattoo someone ever asked you to do."

"That's a long list." His words are slightly slurred but coherent. That's good. That's something.

"Pick one. Details." I need to keep him conscious, keep him focused on something other than the pain and the blood loss.

But I also need to get dressed.

I glance around the room, assessing. My jeans are still draped over the chair where I left them, my shoes kicked off beside it. Canvas is propped against the base of the chair, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his bare chest visible beneath it. Six-pack abs that would be impressive in any other context, now streaked with blood that's run down from his shoulder wound.

So much blood.

I need to focus. I’m a fucking nurse. I've handled worse than this. I've handled trauma cases, gunshot wounds in the ER, patients coding on the table. I can handle this.

Except those were strangers. Patients. People I could compartmentalize and treat with professional distance.

Canvas isn't a stranger anymore.

Not after the way he talked about fantasy novels like they were important. Not after he laughed at my stupid jokes. Not after he threw himself over me without a second thought when the bullets started flying.

"Guy wanted his ex-girlfriend's face," Canvas mumbles, pulling me back to the moment. "On his ass. With devil horns. And the words 'Hell's Waiting' underneath."

"Please tell me you said no." I grab my jeans and step into them quickly, never taking my eyes off him. Button, zip, shoes back on. My shirt is already on, thank god I didn't take it off.

The dragon on my left thigh throbs beneath the protective film, a reminder that he'd finished it. That we were in the cleaning stage when the world exploded around us.

"Said no. He called me a pussy and left." He tries to adjust his position and winces. "Went to some scratcher two towns over. Saw it on Instagram a month later. Looked like a demon potato with tits."

"Demon potato with tits. That's a lot worse than your mumps skull." I'm back beside him, checking the bandages again, making sure the bleeding hasn't increased. "I can't believe you got shot protecting someone you barely know."

"Know you well enough." His good hand finds mine, squeezes weakly. "You hate the Wheel of Time ending. Think Kaladin is the best Stormlight character. Want to work in emergency medicine for the rest of your life because you like the chaos."

I did tell him all of that. During the session, while he was creating art on my thigh, while I was falling for the way his hands moved with such confidence near my inner thighs.

God, was that really just an hour ago?

"Canvas—"

"Davis." He's looking at me now, more focused than he's been since the shooting. "My name's Davis. Canvas is just the name people use because of what I do."

"Davis." It feels intimate, using his real name. Like crossing a line I didn't know existed. "You need to conserve your energy. Stop talking."

"Make me." There's a ghost of a smile on his face, and even bleeding and in shock, he's still flirting with me.

I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to rewind three hours and not book this appointment, or book it for a different day, or do anything that would have prevented us from being here right now.

But I also know that if I hadn't been here, Davis would be alone. Bleeding out in his studio with no one to help him, no one to call for backup, no one to keep him conscious until his MC brother arrives.

"You're an idiot," I tell him, but my hand tightens around his. "A brave idiot, but still an idiot."

"Been called worse."

A sound from the front of the studio makes us both freeze. Heavy footsteps crunching over glass.

My heart stops. *They came back.*

Davis tries to sit up straighter, his jaw clenched against the pain. "Eden, get behind me—"