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“I’m okay,” I croak and I sound as fucked as I feel.
Awesome.
“Let me have another look,” she says, and the concern I paint in her voice is setting off all sorts of alarms in my head, because I like it too fucking much.
Again.
“You wanna get me naked, woman, why don’t you admit it,” I drawl.
“Shut up, Ross.” But she cracks a grin, and it lifts a weight off my chest I didn’t realize was there. Her fingers slip under the hem of my black T-shirt and start lifting. “I just want to see how bad it is. Didn’t get a good look earlier.”
Resigned, tired, I let my head fall back against the wooden wall as she prods and presses painfully around the cuts. Dammit, they shouldn’t hurt like that. I never thought Ed and his cronies would come at me with a knife.
Weird, right? Feeling so damn shitty in the days that followed, I never dwelled on that much. Did they intend to use that knife on Luna? That son of a bitch. Or...
Or was he waiting for me? They have to know I live close by. They used her as bait once before, I know that, but never paid it that much attention, as to the why. Why use her? Why bait me?
Were they waiting to kill me?
I shake my head at these thoughts—no fucking way, right? This has to be the fever talking—when I realize she’s pulling my T-shirt further up.
“No, leave it.” I catch her fingers, stop her before she gets it up all the way. Can’t have her seeing things I don’t want her seeing. “I’m okay. Feeling better already, see?”
“Are you now?”
“Yeah. If you wanted to get in my pants, you only had to say.”
“Oh God, I believe you. You’re starting to sound more like yourself.”
“Is that a backhanded compliment?”
“Nope, not a compliment at all. God, you’re so full of yourself.”
She’s still grinning, though.
Huh.
“And we need to clean out that head wound before it gets infected too. I should go grab that medic Kit from home.”
“Don’t go yet...”
“But you don’t have any antiseptic.”
A thought strikes me. “I have tequila.”
“...Tequila. You serious right now?”
“As a heart attack.” I lift a hand to her cheek. Silky skin. Silky curls, brushing my scarred knuckles. “Hey, Luna...”
There’s something I got to ask her, but it keeps slipping from my mind.
“That tattoo you have,” she whispers, and seems to be leaning into my touch. Bolder, I trace her face, her brows.
“What about it?”
“Why a swan?”
Ah fuck. She keeps catching me off guard.
