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When there’s no answer—just a lonely echo—I start up the stairs. My heart begins to pound. Do I remember CPR? Only on bears!
Fuck me.
At the top of the staircase, I hesitate. The stairs lead to the midpoint of a hallway, so I can’t see directly down it without taking a few more steps. Which I do, slowly and quietly. From the right side of the hall, I see a crack of light. A crack of light—which means a door is open. Maybe the master bedroom door.
I’ve come this far. I figure what the hell. If he’s up here and not answering my creepy interloper cries, there’s probably something wrong. My heart pounds. I hope there’s nothing wrong. I walk slowly toward the light, which does indeed turn out to be a door ajar.
I stand just in front of it. “Hello?”
My voice is softer now, because I’m scared of what I’m going to find. I should say something else, but I can barely breathe. I push the door open and— holy master bedroom, Batman! I blink a few times, surprised by the opulence. And the gun. There’s a gun on the bed. A really big gun on the—
The hunting rifle. That’s his hunting rifle, Einstein.
He’s been here! Where is he now?
My body goes ice cold, then flaming hot. Fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck me. I walk further inside, so I can check the floor on the opposite side of the bed.
Please let him be okay…
That’s when I notice another door. A door through which I can see his gorgeous back and shoulders. I can see he’s got his head down on the bathroom counter.
Shit!
I bustle in, and he is up, arms raised, eyes wide, looming over me before I can even blink.
“Whoa…” I wobble back.
“What the fuck?”
I blink a few times, taking in his bloody head and wary eyes. He gives me a long look, then lowers his arms.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” My cheeks sting as I try to remember what exactly I was thinking mere minutes ago. I wanted you to make me feel the feels. Not just that, I tell myself defensively. I did want to check on him.
“You thought what?” He looks steely. Guarded.
I rub my temple, peeking at him under my curved hand. “I thought maybe you passed out or something.” I look down at my feet, then back up—just in time to see him shut his eyes in what looks like exasperation. His jaw tightens. A millisecond later, he opens his eyes. They look blank. Not angry, just…unreadable.
“Where’d you get the key?” His tone and stance are neutral now. As if we’re talking about weather.
And still, my stomach flutters with anxiety. “It’s the spare one from the flower bed outside.”
I watch his face for clues as to how he’s feeling, and a drop of blood spills down his brow.
“Oh no! It’s still bleeding?” I look him over, wondering if he’s grumpy because he’s about to keel o
ver. That’s when I see the small tube in his hand.
I frown and lean a little closer. “Is that Dermabond?”
“It is.”
“You’re going to glue it up yourself?”
His hand goes to his forehead, long, strong fingers rubbing at the blood there. “Yes.” His eyes burn mine. I get the feeling he’s using them to tell me something vitally important, but I can’t decipher what.
I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Let me help.”
His eyes widen.
