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SAOIRSE
My stomach pitsinto tight coils as my pulse thunders. Acid bubbles in my gut, whirling beneath my chest as I watch the medic shine a small torch into Liam’s eyes. He sits forward and wraps his hands around his shins, nodding once at the doctor.
Then finally, he swigs a gulp of water from a bottle the medic hands him and rinses his mouth before spitting the contents onto the floor. His back expands with each breath he draws, settling the unease gripping my stomach.
He’s okay,I reassure myself.He’s okay.
What feels like the first time since Liam collapsed on the canvas, I steal a breath and then divert my gaze to the other opponent.
Rohan sits in the centre of the ring, his body perched on his shins. His wrapped hands cover his face, showcasing the blood-stained once-white cotton. Mesmerised by the rawness eluding from him, I count the rise and fall of his shoulders as they accentuate his deep, laboured breaths.
I follow his hands with my eyes as he drags them over his forehead and buries his fingertip into the long, soaked strands of his fringe before pushing them off his face. His shoulders drop when he cranks his head and tilts his face to the night sky.
Rainfall dances from the blackened clouds above, puncturing the air and dampening his sweat and blood covered skin. Yet, he seems unfazed by the ice-cold droplets, and instead, bathes in them.
The light from the large floodlights reflects the beads of water clinging to his exposed torso, making him appear unnatural, like an actor in the latest action feature.
He’s dangerously intoxicating, and I hate how my body reacts to him. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to fight the invisible thread that ties us together. Whenever Rohan is in my presence, he becomes a thief, stealing every ounce of my attention, whether or not I want him to.
Blood flows from his busted brow like a narrow river’s steam, trailing over the high contours of his cheekbones until, finally, it pools in the commissure of his open mouth.
My breath traps in my throat when the tip of his tongue peeks out, capturing the small pool with one careless swipe.
I know it shouldn’t, but for some unbeknownst reason, that one slight movement fills my core with a pulsation only he could reach.
My attraction may seem crazy, but the danger — the deceit, the desire, all of it — is alluring. But isn’t that how angels fall? The devil was the most strikingly beautiful man. A temptation we should never indulge in, a sin we must not commit. But even so, the stories say he was once God’s favourite creation. Rohan King is my very own devil, a beautiful enigma wrapped in thunderclouds and coated in the most tempting of sins. Am I strong enough to defy the pull he has on me, or will he drag me under until I burn in his flames?
When his captivating eyes flick towards me, stealing the breath in my lungs, I get my answer. Rohan King will be the death of me.
* * *
After we leftthe Kill Castle grounds, Beibhinn drove us back to the gate lodge before she disappeared to her in-house library with a book tucked underneath her arm. Apparently, Liam got a gym, and she got a room with wall-to-wall smut books. Her words, not mine.
Anyway, she said she needed to clear her head after the fight. Not that I blame her because I’m still reeling from the sadist brutality of it all.
For almost an hour, I pace the floors, waiting for Liam to return. I haven’t spoken to him since this morning, before that embarrassing phone call with Rohan, and as much as I’d love to avoid the topic of my sexual exploitations, I feel he needs some sort of explanation.
Finally, a little after ten, the front door clicks open and he hauls himself inside, his right arm clutching his left side, holding his rib cage.
Flicking the tv off, I place the remote control on the table and lift myself from the chair before walking towards him with hesitant footsteps.
“Here.” I gesture to his gym bag. “Let me help you with that.”
His eyes narrow, darkening when they settle on my face. A harsh gasp rushes past my lips when my eyes land on his battered appearance. There is an enormous bruise forming along his jawline, not to mention the deep cut sliced into his bottom lip. There’s congealed dried blood beneath his nose and his left eye appears non-existent behind the swelling of his eyelid.
“I don’t need your help,” he grits through his teeth. I know he’s mad at me, and he has every right to be, but he’s clearly in pain.
“Just piss off, Saoirse. I’m not in the fucking mood for your fake sincerity. If you wanna play nurse, I’m sure your dickhead of a fuckboy would be happy to have you.” His words sting more than I’m willing to admit. Then he pushes past me and drags himself up the stairs, grunting with each step. My eyes stay trained on him, and when he sways halfway to the top, clutching the banister for support, I rush up the few steps and stand behind him. He may not want my help, but he’s getting it.
Placing my palm in the dip of his back, I stop him from rocking back.
“I said I was fucking fine.”
I ignore him, sticking to him like a shadow. Finally, once I successfully get him up the stairs, I trail him to his bedroom door and open it for him. He wordlessly brushes past me for a second time, dropping his gym bag right inside the door before he strides across the bedroom towards the en suite.
Flicking on the light, he kicks the door open and hauls himself inside, leaving the door open. I take it as an invitation and follow behind him. Finally, I come to a stop in the doorway and lean my shoulder against the jamb. My eyes track his every movement as he lowers himself to the cabinet beneath the sink and pulls out a first-aid kit. His left hand is still clutching his rib cage, so using his right, he flips the clasp holding the green plastic med-kit open before pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls.
Feeling helpless, I push from the doorway and close the distance between us. I grab the bottle from his grip and level his unamused look with one of my own. “I know you’re mad at me, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need my help.”
