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As he was dressing, my eyes fixed on the covered knife wound stretching over his side. I remembered all over again the paralyzing fear that gripped me when I’d seen Oskar lash out with the knife and Win’s shirt soaking with crimson.
I’d tried so hard to keep him out of it. I failed.
“Eyes up here.” He pointed with two fingers to his face. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
He was lying. I had a knife wound on my arm that looked like a scratch in comparison, and it hurt. “It’s going to scar,” I murmured, finding my coffee and draining what was left of the espresso.
He smiled, tugging the shirt over it to hide it. “I’ll finally look like the heathen you say I am.”
I frowned.
“I can have Max tattoo something over it if it bothers you. Your name in giant letters.”
My eyes rolled. “That’s ridiculous.”
He smirked. “Aw, angel. You wouldn’t tattoo my name on you?”
A thousand times over.I sniffed. “Absolutely not.”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “My feelings are hurt.”
The door popped open, and Max’s dark head appeared again.
“Don’t you knock?” Win asked.
Max glanced at me, then back to Win, his expression grimmer than usual. “The cops are here.”
35
Win
“You got a warrant for my arrest?”I asked, casually walking out of the bathroom like I wasn’t worried.
Spoiler alert: I was kinda worried.
Not for me, though. I could handle a little time in the slammer. I certainly wouldn’t be sitting in there reflecting on my actions and feeling guilty. Hell, any remorse I had would be that I didn’t just fucking end him right there.
I was worried for Lars, though. I couldn’t get hauled into the big house because then he would be here alone. I had no idea where Oskar was—
Fucking hell.
“Where is he?” I demanded, forgetting I was supposed to be chillax. “Tell me he’s rotting in a cell.”
The taller of the two officers standing in the center of the room filled with our friends asked, “Winston Sinclair?”
“In the flesh.” I confirmed. “Now answer my question. Where is he?”
“I’m assuming you’re asking about the man you engaged in a violent altercation and then fled the scene of the crime.”
“First”—I held up a finger—“he’s not a man. He’s a twat-waffle.” Someone snickered, but I kept going. “Second”—I added another finger for the first—“I didn’t know it was a crime to defend oneself after being stabbed.”
The officer cleared his throat, and I waved my two fingers at him before raising a third.
“And third, I didn’t flee. I gave my name and whereabouts to a witness and then took myself off to the hospital for medical care.”
“Listen here, smartass,” the shorter officer said, taking a step forward.
Was I supposed to be scared?
