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“I just couldn’t watch the fight, I’m not a fan of violence. You’re the one who’s bleeding, so I’m the one who should be concerned.” My voice was faint as my heart beat quickly at his closeness. The glow around my body was sort of fluttering, sending heat rolling through me as it slowly grew.
“I’ll heal soon enough.” He studied me for another moment before calling out to his packmates, “Thank you.”
A few male voices replied that he was welcome, and I bit my lip to stop myself from doing something stupid.
Like… asking him to kiss me.
Or kissing him myself.
“Thank you,” I finally said.
“Don’t thank me for filling your needs.” He finally released my face and peered down into the den, at the bookshelf below it. I noticed a large bag hanging off his shoulder, and was curious about what it held. “You weren’t kidding about the shelf.”
“I’m a lot shorter than you,” I said sheepishly.
“I’ll build you a ladder.” He caught my hand and tugged me closer. After I stepped up to his side, he swept me into his arms. The hold wasn’t nearly as awkward as it had been the last time—probably because I wrapped my legs around his waist instead of just making him hold me upright.
“You’re bleeding on me,” I remarked.
“I’ll lick it clean.”
A laugh escaped me, and he slipped over the ledge and into the den. The man landed so lightly, it was ridiculous.
“I think I’ll pass on the tongue-bath.”
“I’ll give you more time to consider it.” His arm around my waist squeezed lightly, and I bit my lip again in an attempt to stop myself from grinning.
It failed.
My lip slipped out from between my teeth, and the grin defeated my attempt to control it.
Ivaylo carried me into the bathroom with him, then set me on the countertop as he kneeled down and dug through the drawers beneath the sink. He came back up with a stack of thick tan fabric pieces that I didn’t recognize, cut into squares of varying sizes.
Before using the fabric, he put away the things in his bag. Some of them went in the bathroom, but he stepped out long enough to put the rest away in the kitchen and living area.
I eyed the fabric curiously while he was gone, and when he returned, asked, “What are those?”
“Bandages.” He set them on my thigh—my bare thigh—and turned the water on, dipping his fingers below it and using them to wet the area around his still-bleeding wound.
“What are you doing?”
“Bandaging myself.”
I scowled at him. “I can do that.” I had changed my grandparents’ bandages enough times not to be nauseous when it came to wounds. Seeing someone literally torn apart was a different story, but the cuts themselves didn’t scare me.
“I’d rather you hold the bandages.” He dried his fingers on his shorts—which were covered in dirt, thanks to his shifting—and grabbed one of the pieces of fabric, placing it on his side and smoothing it out.
“Why?” I finally asked.
“I’d rather not scare you any more than I already have,” he admitted.
I blinked.
And then blinked again.
He patched another wound. I hadn’t noticed it, because it was on his back. He missed about half of it, and muttered a curse when he realized.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I finally said to him.
