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Barefoot, I danced around shards of broken ceramic and clasped his arm, tugging him to stand.
He staggered and grappled for purchase on the doorframe, nearly taking me down with him, but we managed to stay upright. He hung from my shoulder, eyes ablaze with an emotion I couldn’t interpret. His torn shirtfront fell in ruins. The exposed part of his chest showed similarly damaged skin. Black. Weeping. Raw.
“What happened?”
He limped, dragging me forward through the broken pottery. “Downstairs. I need… to rest.”
“But your face. My god. Mordecai, you—” I yowled as a sliver of broken ceramic pierced my foot.
Instantly off-balance, we crashed into the wall, and Mordecai landed on the ground once again.
“Motherfucker.” Whimpering, I carefully prodded my tender heel. Luckily, the piece hadn’t embedded itself deeply and came away easily enough. A wet spot remained. Blood.
Mordecai hissed, neck straining so the tendons showed as he lurched away from me, scattering bits of pottery in his frantic retreat.
Cautiously avoiding the mess, I went after him.
“Stay back.” He snarled, eyes like daggers, issuing a warning I didn’t understand.
“You’re hurt. Stop.” I caught up easily and, indifferent to his protests, helped Mordecai to his feet.
He struggled at first, then submitted, pinching his eyes closed. Face strained, lips retracted over elongated teeth, he allowed me to guide him toward the kitchen.
When I tried to deposit him on a stool, he protested, throwing me off and stumbling toward the basement door. “Downstairs. I must…”
“No.” I whirled him around and shoved his ass on the stool. “Sit. Let me look at you.”
He landed with a groan, nostrils flaring, eyes on fire, more red than brown. “Ensley—”
“You’re hurt. What the hell happened?”
He didn’t respond, face contorted in agony.
Foot sticking to the cold floor, I fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on, bathing the kitchen in a washed-out yellow glow.
Mordecai hissed again, shying from the assault. He squinted and curled a hand near his face, covering the injury.
Seeing it properly for the first time, my stomach sank. Mordecai had always been pale, but he was downright ghostly under the harsh light. Not for the first time, I had the sense of time having passed without my knowledge. He seemed aged. Withered. His hair was more silver than blond, lacking its usual luster. His skin was less smooth and more shriveled. His lips, usually bright and vibrant, had dulled to a soft pink. Dark patches surrounded his burgundy eyes, giving them a sunken look that disturbed me greatly.
I almost retreated. This wasn’t the man I’d taken to bed a handful of hours ago. This wasn’t the man who had kissed me and brought me beyond my senses. Who I’d joked with and teased. Whose sure hands and firm body had brought me to orgasm.
This wasn’t the man who’d lain beside me, sharing a pillow and tales of old.
This man was decades older.
“What happened to you?”
“Ensley. I must get downstairs.” Even his voice was wan and faded.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but with a racing heart, deeply embedded fear, and a furious impulse to make him better, I found a lone dish towel in a mostly empty drawer and ran it under water. My hands shook, and the life-altering accident from my youth lingered on the periphery of my mind.
I couldn’t save my father.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” I stammered, wringing the water from the towel, wishing I had alcohol or antiseptic cream.
“You can’t help me, Ensley. I need… rest. Please.”
“You’re hurt.”
