Page 40 of Roped

“What?”

“You did…” He grunts, his lips pursed. “Good.”

“No, but”—I look at him urgently—“did you hear what I-I said? There’s too much blood. There’s—”

He shakes his head sharply, his brow beaded with sweat. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t—”

“Went in smooth. You didn’t… hit anything; looks worse than it is.”

“But—”

“Hurts”—he clenches his jaw—“like a bitch. Like you wanted it to.”

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t…”

“Might need… stitches, but… Gonna be fine.”

My hand on his wound pulses and I feel dizzy. “Stitches? Oh my God. Oh my God, I’m going to pass out.”

He grunts before muttering dryly, “Sure, why not? Stabbin’ someone does take its toll.”

“I’ll do it,” I declare, ignoring his attempt at sarcasm. Which, if the situation was different, I’d be a lot more focused on, given so far he’s displayed zero sense of humor.

“Do what?”

“Stitch you up.”

He watches me a moment, his eyes appearing slightly clear. “You’ll stitch me up.”

“Yes,” I say, snapping my spine straight. “I will stitch you up.”

“You stitch anythin’ else up before?”

“No,” I admit, determination flowing through my veins alongside fear; God, so much fear for him. “But how hard can it be? I can do it. I can save you. I can—”

In the next breath, I find my cheek cradled in his rough palm, his fingers buried in my hair and his thumb stroking my jaw. “Darlin’, I’m fine, yeah? I ain’t dyin’. It’s just a stab wound. Superficial, most likely. Have had a lot worse, all right? So I need you to calm the fuck down before you start pokin’ me with needles. Or worse, really pass out on me.”

I stare at him, at his tight features, his looming form. His jaw is clenched tight and his scar stands out in stark relief. There’s sweat beading his forehead, and every now and then, his breath ends in a slight growl, signaling his pain. And I realize this is it. This is what he was talking about. About his heart trying to beat out of his chest when he thought I was in danger. About how it stopped at first but then beat like it never did before. It wasn’t the wolves that made my heart do that or the fear of my own death; it was this. Seeing him in so much pain that I feel it in the core of me. I knew I wanted to hurt him, but I didn’t expect to feel this when he did get hurt.

I grab his wrist with both hands, leaving bloody prints on his skin. “Why did you do that?”

His gaze seems clear and alert when he replies, “’Cause you wanted to do it.”

“But I—”

“But you were takin’ your sweet-ass time with it.”

“I-I was deciding. I was—”

He shakes his head, his breaths heavy. “Ain’t got all night to stand around, waitin’ to get stabbed.”

I dig my nails into his hot skin. “You could’ve… you could’ve gotten away with it. You could’ve taken the knife away. And not just at the end, but any time you wanted. I know that. You know that. Why did you let me have it in the first place?”

He did do that, now that I think about it. He did give up that knife pretty easily. He all but dangled it in front of me. He did do other things too: gave me all the power, surrendered a little too easily. And I don’t understand it. I don’t get why he would do that.

“You were scared,” he rasps, his fingers flexing on my face, his eyes taking me in. “I did that. And a man pays his dues. A smart one anyhow.”