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I lower my mouth close to his ear and murmur, “A panic attack?”
He shoves at my chest. Unfortunately for both of us, his hand lands too near the fresh wound, and pain strikes my face.
He snatches his hand back the second he feels blood on it, staring at the red smearing across his palm.
“It wasn’t a fucking panic attack,” he snaps.
I hum. That soft, noncommittal sound I know he hates because it means I heard him and don’t believe him anyway.
“I don’t like little liars.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are when your eyes do that.”
He glares. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means,” I say, lowering my head until we’re nearly nose to nose, “that you were gone, prince. And I don’t like not knowing where.”
“Let me get up.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I don’t want to…” He gestures vaguely, frustrated by his own lack of words. “talk about it.”
I lift my hand and brush damp hair back from his forehead. “Okay,” I say quietly, and I can see that’s surprising him.
He was braced for pressure. Instead, I let my fingers trail over his temple and down the side of his face.
“But,” I add, and enjoy the suspicion in his eyes, “you’re going to tell me eventually.”
He narrows his eyes. “Says who?”
“Says the man you’re currently letting pin you to a bed after stabbing him.”
His face flushes. “I am not letting you do a goddamn thing. You’re holding me down against my will.”
“Mm.”
I lower my gaze briefly to the blood still on his hand. Then I catch his wrist and bring it up between us, looking at the stain.
“You look good with my blood on you, you should wear it more often” I murmur.
That gets me a truly scandalized expression. “What is wrong with you?”
“A lot.”
“I wasn’t asking for a list.”
“Shame. I could make one.”
He tries to yank his hand free. I hold it and kiss his bloodied knuckles lightly, then let go.
He turns his face away, but not before I catch the heat in his cheeks.
I shift, finally easing some of my weight off him before my shoulder starts objecting. His eyes flick to the wound again.
“Let me… fix that.”
