Page 5 of King of Shadows

“Oh my God.” I drag a hand over my face, and that’s when I notice the blood again.

My gaze drops to his abdomen. He’s bleeding through his shirt, and now that I’m not distracted, I can see just how bad it is.

“How are you even standing? You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

“I’ll send you money for the cleaning.”

“That’s not—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Do you know how to stitch a wound?” he cuts in. “Or do you have a first-aid kit nearby?”

I almost laugh. He’s asking me if I know how to stitch a wound. “Well, today is your lucky day.” His eyebrows lift. “I’m a nurse.”

For the first time, he looks genuinely surprised. “Wow.”

I nod toward his bleeding side. “Yeah. Wow.”

He gives me that infuriating little smile again. “So, are you going to stitch me up?”

I look down at myself. “I need to change first.”

Then I turn and hurry toward my bedroom. The last thing I need is for this towel to fall again.

There will be another time for me to process the mortification of flashing a complete stranger. A very hot stranger, at that.

Right now, I need to focus on cleaning his wound, stitching him up, and getting him out of my apartment without killing me or getting me dragged into whatever the hell kind of trouble he’s brought to my door.

Chapter 2

Chloe

I step into my bedroom and close the door behind me. My eyes immediately land on my phone sitting on my dresser. I could call the police.

I could call 911, tell them there’s an armed, bleeding stranger in my apartment, and within minutes, the real police would be here. It would be the sensible thing to do. But something inside me tells me not to. Because despite the fact the man out there in my kitchen looks dangerous and intimidating, I don’t think he’s going to hurt me.

If he wanted to, he could have. He had every opportunity, but he didn’t. It might be foolish. It might be the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. But I’m not calling the police.

I pick up a pair of pajama shorts, a loose polo shirt and quickly pull them on. Then I grab the first-aid kit I always keep in my bathroom and head back into the kitchen.

He’s now sitting on one of my kitchen stools, his head tipped back and eyes closed.

“Take off your shirt,” I say. “I need to see the wound.”

His eyes open immediately, and one eyebrow lifts. Then he takes off his jacket first, and slowly starts to unbutton his shirt before shrugging it off. And then I forget how to breathe for approximately three seconds.

Oh. He’s broad. Very broad.

His chest is solid, his shoulders wide, and his stomach is lined with hard, defined muscle. Dark tattoos cover part of his arm and stretch across a section of his chest, adding to the dangerous edge he already carries.

Even with the blood and the ugly cut along his side, nothing about his physique looks softened by the injury. His abs are well-defined, stretching across his stomach in neat, ridged lines.

I realize I’m staring, and quickly look away, clearing my throat. “Sit still,” I murmur, as I pull on a pair of gloves and examine the wound.

Thankfully, it isn’t as bad as I feared. The cut is deep enough to need stitches but shallow enough that it hasn’t reached anything serious.

“Lucky for you, it’s a flesh wound.”

His mouth curves, but he says nothing. I start cleaning the wound and he doesn’t flinch.