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I clutch at my chest, the thrashing of mine evident beneath my skin. There is blood from Xander’s nose leaking down his cheek, and one of his eyes is already beginning to swell and bruise.
Luca lowers his hand and leans in, lifts each one of Xander’s eyelids, and inspects the vacant topaz-blue orbs within a fan of black lashes.
Nothing.
Oh. God.
Xander.
My palm pressed to my frantic heart becomes wet from perspiration, so I rub my hand down my jeans.
“Shouldn’t we wake him up?” I gasp. “Isn’t it bad to let someone sleep in case they are concussed?” I wish I could swallow those questions. I don’t know why I even spoke, as if Luca Butcher wouldn’t know the best possible practice for a concussed man, given that he is a legit boxing legend.
“No.” Luca leans back, eyes trained on his son, shifting around the plane of Xander’s beautifully broken features. I wonder if he feels each abrasion like they are drawn into his own skin. If he does, he hides it like a lion. “There is no evidence to suggest waking a person from a knockdown is beneficial. The body knows what to do. Sleep protects. It is why we put people in induced comas. It’s best to leave him. Check he’s all right when he wakes up.”
I glance over my shoulder at the door, remembering Charles Young had bolted from the gym the moment Luca advanced on him. I clench my teeth. I have it in me to go after the coward myself.
I’ll take my stake.
Go Buffy on his arse.
I look back at Xander lying on his back, a sleeping beauty with a tale of brutality written in stains of crimson gloss and veins of blue marble.
HereIam. Again. With Xander Butcher and no place else to be. I just came for my clothes—I left them the other day—and felt a thrill, the sight of him incandescent with that damn slow grin, but then Chuck was there.
Seeing Xander’s head snap back the way it did, the strength, the panther-like muscles, all crumble as though the bones that held them dissolved in an instant, hurt me in a way that didn’t make sense.
A deep groan snatches my attention.
I twist back to find Xander rolling his head on the rubber mat. My heart leaps. I drop to my knees to get closer to him, and Luca rises, giving his son space.
I want to touch him. I reach to place my hand on his shoulder, but freeze an inch away, in case he’s hurt, in case he’s concussed, in case he—
“Put those hands on me, Woman.”
I laugh, but I’m not sure where that sound comes from. Hit with relief he’s still a cocky arse, I feel the sting of emotion rise, but I manage to control it. “I thought you weregoodat boxing,” I breathe.
“Yeah,” he says, strained. He has one glossy-blue eye open, but the other is ballooning. “Same.”
The mood darkens when his gaze shifts over my shoulder, his expressive brows furrowing, the memory of what happened falling into his injured gaze like shattering blue glass. He tenses and mutters, “It was my fault,” so quietly a ghost may have spoken, so subtly, his lips barely moving around each word as the swelling takes hold.
He’s still beautiful, though.
He’s locked on his dad, his jaw working hard. “I fucked up. I should have walked away.” He shrugs, but it seems defensive and not nonchalant in the slightest. “I fucked up,” he punches out. “So what?”
I twist to face a stoic Luca, towering over us, dark clouds of energy brewing around his large body like Zeus—a distant father, patriarchal, clouds, thunder, lightning, yep. That seems to be the vibe.
I hold my breath as he speaks, “You’re a damn hothead.” His gruff timbre is stressed with disapproval and with something raw, like concern, fear, maybe. But Luca Butcher isn’t afraid of anything, surely. “MRI,” he orders. “Book it tomorrow!” Then he walks away, barking over his shoulder, “Don’t drive. I’ll send someone. And ice that damn eye!”
Just like that, Luca Butcher is gone, but his ominous energy lingers. He ran from this scene, possibly untrusting his actions had he stayed.
That was private, that moment between father and son, and I feel awkward having witnessed it. He wants Xander to have an MRI.Is that a normal boxing thing?
Hesitantly, I twist back to Xander, who is climbing to his feet. “What are you doing?” I scold. “Slow down.” I’m still kneeling when he walks to the juice bar and grabs a box of tissues, snatching the thin sheets out and stuffing two up each nostril.
Avoiding me, he walks away, so I climb to my feet and march to him, gripping his forearm, finding tightly rivulose veins protruding from the scorching hot flesh.
He stops. Staring ahead, he breathes out hard. Without looking at me, he says, “You have a ride home?”
