Once I enter the dimly lit, gloomy bathroom, I proceed to my counter, where I know my first-aid box that I use after fights is stored. I hear her close the door behind us before slowly walking toward me and when she is standing beside me, I side-eye her.
“You good to take your sweater off?”
She nods, and I resume my preparations for this shit as she ascends the blood-soaked material up her body.
“Will it hurt?”
Her voice sounds nervous, and I take a big breath before responding.
“I'm sure what just stabbed you in the fucking chest would have hurt a lot more.”
She remains silent as I clear the clutter aside, her eyes frantically tracking my every movement, but I do not meet her gaze. Without a word exchanged between us, I grasp her wrist firmly, pulling her closer and lifting her by her waist, before dumping her ass down on the counter in front of me.
Her breathing become shallow as she braces herself for what's to come while I reach for the bottle of vodka nearby, twisting off the cap. She screws her eyes shut as soon as I lift the bottle and when the liquid spills onto her gaping wound, her piercing scream fills the room, her body convulsing with pain before she buries her face into my chest. In an attempt to comfort her, I wrap my arm over her lower back, drawing her closer to me.
“That’s only the start, Charley, but it still needs two stitches.”
Her voice is cracked and muffled as she responds.
“Just do it.”
I release her but she continues to lean into my chest, her body to the side slightly so I am still able to access the wound. She hisses and weeps against me the entire time, flooding my shirt with her tears, but she gets through it.
When I am finished and have patched it up, she glances over at the bottle of vodka beside her before returning her red, wet eyes, to mine and I try not to grin. I motion for her to drink it, and as she does, I clear the surface. I stop her just as she readies herselfto jump down from the counter by standing between her legs and as I peer into her eyes, I glide my palms up the outsides of her thighs.
“You need to start talking.”
Her emerald orbs expand just enough for me to notice, but she gives me the silent treatment. I know everything, but she has no idea. I simply want to see if she trusts me enough to tell me what the fuck she is going through in her own words.
“What do you want me to say, Reign?”
“The truth.”
Her eyes scan mine, becoming welled up once more.
“I told you the truth.”
When she says that, her bottom lip trembles, and I shake my head once before responding calmly.
“No, Char, you didn't; this is a fucking stab wound.”
Tears drop from her thick eyelashes and cascade down her pinked cheeks. I close my eyes for a few seconds before doing something I would never do for anyone else; affection. I take another step forward, lifting my hands and placing my palms on her jaw. She gazes at me surprised as I tilt her head back, and I softly wipe her tears away with my thumbs.
“Tell me.”
I question myself about why the fuck I am doing this. Why am I making things more difficult for myself? For her? I know I am going to be a possessive maniac as soon as she opens up to me, even though I know I'm partly to fucking blame. How can onething alter everything so drastically? We have known this shit was going to happen for years now. She clasps her palms around my wrists and tightens her grasp, whispering.
“It's a long story—”
I glide my hands down her neck to her shoulders as she closes her eyes.
“I'm good to listen.”
Her eyelids gradually open, and she hesitates before eventually starting.
“It all started almost six years ago when I moved here to New York. I moved in with my foster parent, Nana.”
I maintain a neutral expression, not giving anything away and she continues cautiously.
