Every thirty seconds exactly—I counted—I asked the man in the back if he was still alive. He responded every thirty seconds, sounding more and more pissed off each time he answered. Which was good, since I doubted that someone had the energy to sound pissed off if they were about to die. It also pissed me off just a little since I didn’t think it was polite to snap at someone who was in the process of saving your life and possibly breaking the law by doing so. I didn’t point this out to him at this juncture because it definitely wasn’t polite to point out the lack of manners of a stab victim currently losing a lot of blood.
He survived the trip to my place, but my nails barely did from the death grip I had on the steering wheel. Thankfully, he was still conscious when we arrived. Although I didn’t have to completely carry him inside, he was stumbling and leaning on me enough to coat my forehead in sweat by the time I deposited him on the sofa. My dog, Sirius, trailed us inside, eying the bleeding man warily before jumping on the sofa as soon as I set him down, laying right on his legs and refusing to move.
I didn’t know whether it was because he liked dogs—albeit cowardly ones—or because he was too weak to kick him off, but the man didn’t protest. Which worked out well since I didn’t have time to ask him whether he liked dogs or not. It was clear he needed medical attention, so I grabbed my first aid kit and did my best. My hands shook and my stomach roiled as I worked, but I did as much as I could. The best I could included cutting his shirt off with the scissors in my first aid kit and biting back my gasp not just at the bleeding jagged wound in his mid-section but the mid-section itself. Bloodstained, sculpted, covered in ink.
I again reminded myself that perving at the man bleeding on my sofa was really fucking sick. I’d talk that over with a therapist at a later date. The bleeding man didn’t so much as grunt or whimper during me cleaning his wound and pressing a bandage up against it. It had to hurt, like a lot. I did a lot of fucking whimpering when I cleaned out a papercut. Then again, this tatted, muscled, motorcycle club member didn’t exactly look like a whimpering type.
My teeth had been gnawing at the inside of my lip the entire time so I didn’t let out any kind of pathetic moan or start crying.
He didn’t speak during the process, and neither did I, but that was because I was concentrating on not vomiting all over him.
“Okay, so I’ve brought you into my home and treated your stab wound with medical knowledge coming straight off Grey’s Anatomy that I know is not entirely correct, no matter how much of a genius Shonda Rhimes is,” I babbled, not looking at him in the eye. My hands were still pressed over the top of the towel I was using to staunch the bleeding, which for all I knew, could have been making everything worse.
“Scandal, How to Get Away With Murder, Bridgerton. Though technically she didn’t write that, just produced it...” I trailed off, realizing that I was talking about fucking Bridgerton with a stranger who was bleeding from a stab wound. A male stranger. With tattoos, muscles, a Sons of Templar cut, and an overall air of menace. Your run-of-the-mill male did not usually want to hear about Bridgerton and the overall genius of Shonda, and this was certainly not a run-of-the-mill male—stab wound notwithstanding.
“Anyway, what I was trying to say was that we’ve gone through a considerable amount together,” I continued as he raised his brow ever so slightly. “You more than me, of course.”
Though I’d definitely be having some sleepless nights thinking about this ordeal.
“And I don’t even know your name,” I sighed. “Weird since I’m covered in your blood and you’re in my house and ... yeah.”
He continued to stare at me with those multicolored eyes, with that porcelain skin, that chiseled jaw held tight—likely because of the pain, of course. Not because of ... me.
Oh my god. How narcissistic was I, thinking the Adonis with the chiseled jaw was focused on me right now? He was absolutely covered in tattoos, from his neck downward. There was even ink on his face. A small heart underneath his left eye. A skeletal hand holding a rose on his temple. In gothic script, the word ‘cursed’ curled on top of his right eyebrow. I wasn’t sure if they were meant to intimidate or scare away those from regular society, but they did neither of things to me. They fascinated me. The urge to reach out and touch them was almost overwhelming.