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“Oh—what happened?” She reaches across me, pointing toward my left arm, and my stomach nosedives. “Did you hurt yourself? Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I run my right hand back through my damp hair so she can’t see my left side as well. “Going hard. Ran into something.” I square my shoulders, keeping my face impassive. “You want some company on your walk?”
She looks at the ground, then up at me again. “Why don’t I walk you in and peek at your arm? That way I won’t worry for you.”
She looks weird, like she might cry, and I feel like the biggest dick alive. What was I thinking when I touched her in the closet at the burger place that night? If I’d kept my damn hands to myself, we wouldn’t be here right now.
I suck a breath back, knowing damn well I can’t refuse her. I say, “Sure. If you want.”
As she walks into the house in front of me and I step in behind her, I imagine kissing Finley. I could take her by surprise, make her forget why she came in, and keep my arm behind her. Hide. It’s every addict’s first instinct.
We wind up in the living room, and I’m shaking because I can’t do that. I can’t kiss her. She told me to keep my goddamn distance. It’s not her fault I crashed her party, losing my shit on the fucking cliffs. That shit is my fault. Now I’ve got to make this right, then get her home.
“Sit down.” I wave at the couch. “Take your coat off. Someone brought some good stuff by—Miss Laura?”
“Miss Alice’s twin,” she murmurs with a nod.
“Yeah.” I don’t remember who Miss Alice is, but I walk toward the kitchen as I say, “Sit down. I’ll get you some.”
It’s darker in the living room than here in the kitchen. I hope she’ll wait there. When I don’t see her in the doorway, I run the sink’s faucet and stick my arm under the cold water.
Fuck. It still looks like shit. Like one big bruise, but you can see the needle marks along the hump of my vein. Would she know what that means? Yeah, dickhead. She’s not an idiot.
My gaze flies to the knives. The worst of the damage is right there in the crease of my elbow. That bad bruise is probably what she saw in the moonlight. If I could make a little cut there, she might notice that and not the other shit.
With another glance over my shoulder, I grab the knife and set it in the sink. I look back again before pulling the plate of bread closer, like I’m fucking with that. Then I lower my arm into the sink and, with shaking fingers, drag the knife tip over my skin.
As I set the knife back into the sink’s trough, she says, “Declan?”
Shit.
I nearly jump out of my skin as she strolls over.
“Oh, it’s friendship bread. We do a lot of that here lately.” I fold my arm up as she looks from the plate to me. “Have you tried it?”
Sweat prickles my hairline as I feel blood drip off my arm. Right on target, Finley’s eyebrows scrunch up. Then her eyes pop open wider, and she looks me up and down. “Are you all right?”
Her gaze dips to the floor and then snaps to my arm.
“Oh no. Sit down there.” She points at the kitchen table. I pull a chair out as she leaves the room. Then I double back and stash the knife back in its slot. You fucking idiot. I sit down and dig my fingertips into my bicep, raise the arm over my head.
Just take some deep breaths.
I do that, so I’m not shaking quite as bad when she comes back with a first-aid kit. Her brows are drawn together in concern, and her red, puffy eyes are kind enough to make me feel another wave of hatred for myself as she sits in the chair beside mine.
“There now. Let me have a look…”
I don’t want to show her, but I’m out of options. I stretch my arm out, shut my eyes. I feel weird and sweaty, kind of tingly. Her hand on my forearm makes me feel like I’m about to get sick.
I pull in some deep breaths, waiting for the gasp or murmur. Instead, she tears a packet open.
“All right. I’ll get cleaning it. All I have is alcohol on hand, so it will burn more than a bit. I’m terribly sorry.”
It does burn. I feel it in my head and throat—a deep, deep sting that makes my eyes and mouth water. I must have gotten veins with that knife cut and not just flesh. After she’s done cleaning the gash with alcohol, I start to shake again because…endorphins. Pain—and then the absence of it—feels like pleasure to me.
I feel calm for just a minute. Calm enough to get a few deep breaths with my face hidden behind my right hand. Then her fingers drift along my vein.
She’s quiet as she cleans the puncture marks, but I’ve got my eyes shut, and everything feels like it’s spinning. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore, which means she doesn’t want to see this shit. I dig my fingers into my temples. She rubs something over the marks.
