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I snatch the bottle from his hand, then taking a large biohazard container from the cupboard under the sink, I drop the bottle in for disposal. I sweep the needle and syringe in next, the cotton ball and alcohol wipes. I make sure I toss everything except the tourniquet, then I close the container and shove it back where it belongs while the symphony of breaking glass penetrates the closed door.
“You had no right to barge into my apartment, Archer.”
“I came here to ask about the bruise on your wrist,” he grits out. “Someone grabbed you, Minka. You tried to hide it, I know you did, but you can’t keep that shit from me. I wanna know who did it, then I’m gonna tear the fucking hands from their arms and make sure it never happens again.”
I laugh. An actual throw-my-head-back guffaw that ends with a growl, because none of this is even remotely funny.
Taking my tourniquet to the fridge, I reach up and drop it into the container on top. Then turning back to Archer, I shake my head and snag my bottle of water. “Go away. I owe you absolutely nothing, Malone. Not a single explanation. Not a single excuse. And I sure as shit don’t owe you my time or company. Let yourself out of my apartment and never come back.”
He swings his hand out, scarily fast, and wraps his fingers around my wrist. I hiss from the ache, but then my breath comes to a stop when Archer’s inhalation of air tells me he knows.
He understands.
Bringing our hands up higher, he studies his prize; he studies the way his fingers line up with the bruises on my skin, the way his thumb lines up exactly with the marking below it. Then he releases me with a choked gasp and backs up half a dozen steps.
My torso twists from the way he threw my hand. My hips swivel as they stop my spin and leave me still facing him. Then my eyes go to his, and for just a moment, I revel in the way he looks like he might be sick.
For the first time since we met, he appears apologetic for the way he behaves.
“I— I did…” He draws a deep breath, then releases it, and with it, the color in his cheeks drains away. “Me? That’s… me?”
“It’s none of your business.” And because I’m already prepared for infusion day, despite not being prepared for eating every day, I take a candy bar from the top of the fridge and hold it in the same hand as my water. “I choose not to share this with you, Malone. As a grown adult, I have that right. But don’t worry, I have no transmittable diseases. You’ve caught nothing from me, you’re not in danger, and that…” I start toward my living room. “Is the end of that.”
“It’s not the fucking end!” he roars at my back, and though I know he wants to reach out and grab me again, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare. “Minka! That’s not the end.”
“It actually is.” Dropping onto the couch with a listless thud, I snag my remote and pretend his existence doesn’t bother me. “I have a friend now who is a cop. I also have a friend who is part-time mafia, part-time bartender. So if you don’t remove yourself from my home, you might force me to make a call.”
“Neither of those friends will make me leave.” Coming around the couch and slowing in front of me, I swear Archer softens his expression when he realizes just how exhausted I feel. How my eyes struggle to focus, and how my heart thuds faster than it should.
To him, it probably looks like I’m about to puke. He’s not far off. That temper I was riding only a minute ago is now wiped away and replaced by solution I administered too quickly.
I let him get to me, and this is the price I pay.
Lowering into a crouch in front of me, Archer takes the remote from my hands and sets it aside. Then he gently takes my water, opens the lid, and coaches it up, not stopping till it touches my lip. “You’re scaring me, babe. It’s fucking ridiculous, but I care more than I should.” He tips the bottle back so cold liquid trickles along my throat. “I’m not asking just to be a nosy prick. I’m asking because I worry about you.” Lowering the water, he holds it for me and studies my eyes. “So I’m gonna ask again; what the fuck?”
My heart thunders. Fast enough to make my hands shake and my brow break out in a sweat. I don’t normally react to infusion this way, but being late on treatment, then slamming it into my veins twice as fast as I should, has left me clammy and stupid.
Looking down at my bruised wrist, I glance up again and swallow the nausea creeping along my throat. “That’s not your fault.”
“Pretty fucking sure it is.” He speaks softly. Gently, as he places his fingers over the marks left behind. “Looks like a slam dunk case to me.”
“They’re your marks,” I admit. “But not your fault. You didn’t hurt me on purpose.”
“I didn’t realize I’d hurt you at all,” he counters with a crackle in his voice. “I didn’t…” He shakes his head. “I still don’t understand.”
“Hemophilia is a blood disorder that means I’m missing clotting proteins in my blood.” I pull my hand from his grip and snag a pillow from the opposite end of the couch. Placing it on my end, I tilt to the side and slowly lay down. I’ve sailed past the water-and-chocolate phase of infusion, and dived headfirst intolie the hell down, or fall down. “Means I bleed a lot. And bleeds, beneath the skin, are bruises.”
“I bruised you?” His gaze flickers along my face. My eyes. My dimples, even. And with every glimpse, I see the way he mourns the naiveté he lived a moment ago. “My hand did that?”
“I bruise easily, so don’t start freaking out about your grip strength.”
The TV bleats behind Archer, some show about celebrities living on a deserted island, but it’s his face I see when my eyes flutter open. It’s his lips, and his jaw I focus on. His broad shoulders, and when I look down, his stroking fingers.
“I need treatment every second day, but I forgot last night.”
“Because I was here,” he surmises. “I distracted you.” And then he remembers what I’ve already played over in my mind: when he grabbed my wrists in his and slammed them against the wall. When we came together in passion and a lack of willpower and he pushed me against the wall and took, took, took. “Fuck, Minka.”
“It’s okay.” I close my eyes to rest. To pull myself away from the ledge of nausea. “You weren’t abusive, Archer. You were just rough.”
