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I looked up, hearing something in his voice, unsure what that something might be. It was fucking painful to pry my hands off him, but I did, taking a small step back to offer him some space.
“Did I scare you, angel? I won’t hurt you.” I promised, realizing the blood all over my hands made me look like a liar.
“I’m not scared of you,” he said, not once taking his eyes off mine. “You’re hurt.”
I don’t care about me.“Can I touch you?”
“You don’t ever have to ask.”
A groan ripped from my chest, and I was on him, yanking him into my body, closing mine around him as much as I could manage without causing pain. The knife wound in my side screamed, but I could endure it if it meant holding him.
“Freeze!” someone yelled down the terminal. The sound of a beeping golf cart filled the chaos. “Don’t move!”
“We have about fifteen seconds until they slap some handcuffs on your wrists,” Max said, hand hitting my back. “Go.”
I glanced back at Oskar who was semiconscious, still sprawled out on the ground.
“You,” I said, pointing to a man nearby. “That guy stabbed me. And him,” I said, pointing to Lars as I showed him my bleeding side. “Make sure they arrest him. My name is Win Sinclair. Tell the cops I’ll be at the hospital.
“Let’s go, angel,” I said, taking Lars’s hand as we ran for the doors where Wes’s bright-yellow bus was like a neon sign waiting at the curb.
“Stop!” security yelled.
Blood and adrenaline drained from my body, making me dizzy as we scrambled into the back seat with Wes hitting the gas before the door was even fully closed.
“What the hell happened?” He freaked, speeding away from the terminal.
I heard Max answer but paid no attention to what he said.
“Talk to me, angel,” I begged, sliding across the seat until I was plastered at his side. For the second time that day, I ripped the shirt right off his body. “How bad is your arm?”
“Not as bad as your side.” He worried, trying to reach for me.
I batted his hand away to take his arm and look at the wound. It was about two inches long, angry, and bleeding. “Goddamn it, Lars,” I spat, tying the ruined shirt tightly around the wound.
He grunted from the pain, and it only made me angrier. “Do not ever get in the middle of me and a fight ever again.”
“He was trying to kill you!” Lars protested.
“Better me than you,” I muttered, dead serious.
Lars started yelling in rapid-fire, angry Swedish, the words raining off his tongue so fast I had no hope of translating even one.
“It’s okay,” I told him, trying to pull him in and calm him down. “It’s okay now. You’re safe.”
“I don’t care about me, you devil!” he yelled in English. “I care about you! You don’t even deserve it!”
“I know. Let me have it, angel,” I said, encouraging him to get it out. “Tell me what else is wrong with me.”
A sob broke in his throat, and he collapsed against me, face pressing into my chest. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice quieter than before.
Over his head, I smiled. “I know.”
“You’re stabbed. He stabbed you.”
“Just a scratch.” I reassured him.
Max glanced into the backseat, giving me a look that said he knew better. I dared him with my eyes to tell Lars otherwise.
