“This isn’t a time to joke,” I said.
He laughed, and I felt my shoulders sagging from the sound. If he was laughing, then it wasn’t serious… right?
I didn’t know.
The most I had ever gotten injured, besides from my fall—push—off the cliff, was when I accidentally cut my finger while washing a knife after dinner.
Had to get three stitches for that.
His eyes moved over my face before down my body and stopping at my middle. I looked down and realized I was wringing my hands together while I was talking to him.
He held out his hand to me.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He rolled his eyes as if the thought was so ridiculous and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close to his warm body.
I instantly relaxed.
“I was so worried. Are you okay?”
“Ah, you didn’t have to worry about me. I’m not easy to kill.”
“That’s not funny,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’m being serious.”
Before I asked him what he meant, he was pulling me back inside his apartment, shutting the door, and leading us to the couch, where a first aid kit was on the coffee table.
“You’re bleeding through the bandage,” I said.
“Come help me rewrap,” he replied calmly.
I nodded. The fact that he sounded so calm, so blasé about this whole thing, helped calm me down. Perhaps I was making this out to be bigger than it actually was.
Plus, helping him would give me something to do, and allow me to assess the injuries for myself.
I moved over to his other side, to his injured arm, and carefully unwrapped the bandage.
“Why didn’t you come over as soon as you were home?” I asked.
“Didn’t want to scare you,” he replied gruffly.
I paused. “Is it that bad?”
I started to twist the white gauze away from his arm when he answered, “I’ve had worse.”
I frowned.
Would a contractor really be used to having these kinds of injuries? And what kind of injury was it?
I gasped when I pulled the gauze out all the way. “You need to go to the hospital!”
“No.”
“But—”
He grasped my chin, directing my attention back to him. “Ryleigh. I said no.”