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Something at his feet drags my attention away and I balk at the sight.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“And you’re still here,” he counters. “Don’t you have someone else to fuss over?”
“You’re an asshole,” I hiss.
“Original,” he mutters, before reaching out with his free hand and turning the water off.
“Pass me a towel,” he demands, making my brows shoot up.
Much to his irritation, I don’t move. Instead, I cross my arms under my breasts, pushing them up, making his eyes drop to my cleavage.
Men are so fucking predictable.
“Pass me a fucking towel or get the fuck out.”
I should do the latter, but then I never have been very good at doing the right thing.
Thoughtlessly, I reach out and snag a towel, not realizing it’s the smallest one on the rack.
“Seriously?” he seethes.
“Take it or leave it, asshole.”
He curses under his breath as he snatches it from me and attempts to cover himself up.
“Sit down,” I demand, pointing at the toilet.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit your ass down,” I repeat.
Turning my back on him, I open the cupboard beneath the sink and pull out the first aid kit I found when I was snooping a few days ago.
Slamming it on the counter, I rummage around inside for what I need.
“Why are you still standing?” I bark, sensing him looming over me. You’d think he’d be less terrifying when his armor has been stripped away. But actually, it’s the opposite.
He’s even more intimidating when all his toned muscles and ink are on display.
You should have walked straight back out…
“I’m more than capable of cleaning myself up.”
“Is that why you're still bleeding?” I counter, placing a hand on my waist and jutting a hip out.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, finally sitting his ass on the closed toilet seat, leaving the towel resting over his lap.
“Hand,” I demand, lowering myself to my knees beside him.
I wish the memory of being in this position with him not so long ago would vanish into infinity and never return. But sadly, that’s not the case, and instead of forgetting it, my cheeks burn with shame.
Forcing the image of crawling to him, basically begging for his dick, to the back of my mind, I turn his hand over and inspect the damage.
Usually, I’d let him walk around with shards of glass in his hand, leaving it to get infected. But I’m very aware that the reason he smashed that glass in the first place was because of me.
And if we are going to be on the same team to bring Victor and his band of fucked-up cunts down, then I need him fully functioning. Not with a dodgy shooting hand.
