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I take a few deep breaths and try to calm my racing heart. There’s no need to rush into anything stupid. I should catch my breath first and focus on a solution when my head is clear.
I continue to sit at the kitchen table in my pajamas, staring into a glass of milk. Longing for something stronger. Tequila might do it. But the thought makes my stomach churn in that way that’s become all too familiar.
You can’t drink if you’re pregnant, idiot!
Fuck, my life would be turned on its head.
Time passes like treacle, and I’m still lost in thought when the door swings open abruptly. It gives me such a start that I almost knock my glass over.
Anton’s tall shape stands in the doorway, like a dark shadow. His hair dark, tousled, his shirt torn. I’m pretty sure there’s blood on his face. I stare at him in shock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so disheveled.
“What the—?” I begin as he enters the room, his towering presence filling the space. I want to ask him where the hell he’s been, but I’m certain he’ll tell me it’s none of my business. Maybe he’s right.
I’m not even sure I want to know.
“What are you doing here?” he asks gruffly, his accent thicker than normal.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I say. “Is everything okay?” I feel my eyes widen as he moves in closer, and I realize that the front of his dark shirt is soaked with blood. “Oh, my God! You’re hurt!” I’m on my feet before he can respond. Without thinking, I move to stand in front of him, my eyes roving down his chest.
Shit, that’s a lot of blood!
“What the hell happened?” I blurt, despite my earlier decision not to ask.
“Something that should have happened a long time ago.” His expression is grim. There are fine scratches crisscrossing his face. A bruise high on his cheekbone.
“But you’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing my hand away when I reach out to touch him.
What are you doing, Scarlett?
But I can’t help it; something in me clenches with concern as I realize he must be injured.
“Nothing?” I scoff. “You’re bleeding all over the place, Anton! Let me help you.”
“I can take care of myself.” His voice is stubborn, but his eyes betray a hint of vulnerability. He doesn’t want to admit that he needs help.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. “I know we have our differences but please let me do this for you. I want to help.”
He hesitates for a moment before nodding reluctantly. I guide him to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, my hand lingering on his arm as he sits down. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I curse myself for letting my attraction to him distract me at a time like this.
“Stay here,” I tell him, trying to sound authoritative. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
My thoughts are racing as I fetch the kit from the cabinet. What the hell happened to him? Is this somehow related to the car chase earlier?
God, what if he’s been hurt because I’ve brought trouble back here…
I brush away the thought, focusing on the job at hand. The air is laced with tension, and I find myself holding my breath as I pull up a chair beside him, opening the first aid kit, and laying out the supplies. My hand trembles as I begin unbuttoning his shirt.
An expanse of firm bare skin emerges. Skin I’ve come to know, skin I’ve explored with my fingertips…my lips… Except today, it’s streaked with blood. A jagged tear extends across his chest, gaping so deep I can see layers of muscle tissue beyond the ripped skin. The sight almost makes me gag. I swallow down an uncomfortable sensation in my throat. I have no idea why the sight of his torn flesh upsets me so much.
“Shit. I think this needs stitches,” I mutter beneath my breath. “You need to get to a doctor.”
He shakes his head. “No.” His tone is curt. I search his face for a sign of pain as I carefully wipe the caked blood that has crusted around the edges of the ugly gash. There’s barely a flicker. He’s such a stubborn asshole.
“Fuck,” I say to myself. I’ve taken first aid courses and I know enough to realize this is bad. But I also know there’s no point in arguing with him. “Here,” I say gruffly, handing him a clean cloth to press against the wound as I dig through the first aid kit. “These butterfly bandages might hold it closed. Although superglue would be better,” I mutter.
“How do you know this?” he asks. I give him a quick look.
