“I’ll pay for it.”
“No,” he says firmly, frustration exploding in his voice. “I can’t go to the hospital... I can’t go home either,” he says quietly this time.
I toss the phone to the side and stare at him for a moment. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, wincing in pain.
I shove the keys into the ignition and turn the engine on.
We make the trip to my place in perfect silence.
An hour later, we roll through the gates and enter my driveway. I bring the car to a stop in front of the entrance and help him out.
Slowly, we walk inside.
“Wait here,” I say, propping him against the kitchen counter.
I pull my jacket off while kicking my boots off, and then I run to the bathroom and grab a pair of gloves.
I put them on and rush back.
“Okay, now let's go slowly,” I say and walk him to the bathroom.
I turn the shower on, peel his jacket off, and cut the rest of the blood-drenched T-shirt off his torso before I remove his jeans and boxer shorts.
Thoroughly, I inspect his body and wounds, looking for foreign objects, shards of glass, rocks, and dirt. Anything stuck to his skin or buried in his wounds.
“You need stitches,” I say as I pull a suture kit from a cabinet.
He nods.
“It will hurt a little,” I say.
He tips his chin down again.
Gently, I start to clean his skin and wounds.
It’s a long, meticulous process, which often makes his muscles tense and his jaw clench.
As I get closer to his cuts, he closes his eyes, hardening his muscles even more. I carefully disinfect them before I suture them.
Once I finish up, I apply the sterile dressings and bring him a clean robe.
Leaning on me, we walk into the bedroom.
“Thank you,” he murmurs as he slowly lowers himself onto the bed.
Slowly, he sprawls on his back and closes his eyes.
A moment later, I walk into the living room, pull my laptop open and place an order.
12
SENNA
The doorbell rings,the sound drilling into my brain.
I jerk upright and glance at the kitchen’s clock.
Shit. It’s really late.