5. Wolf
This is torture.
Her long fingers carefully peel off the tape holding the large bandage to my chest. This is day three of consciousness and I am starting to lose my fucking mind.
The gentle touch of her gloved hand against the hardness of my pec sends goosebumps across my flesh, my nipples pebble into tiny hard points and the tendons in my neck are so taut it feels as though my head’s going to shoot off of my shoulders.
“Sorry,” she whispers for the millionth time.
My eyes are shut tight so I don’t have to look at her. So I don’t have to see that long inky hair. She wore it down in a braid yesterday, the end swishing against her lower spine. I want to rip it out of her scalp by the roots.
I say nothing in response.
The stickiness of the tape tugs at the little hairs covering my skin, almost ticking my flesh. It bothers me more than it should, the way she is so quiet and so calm and so careful with me. She reminds me a little of Haisley, all of that time I spent with my brother’s love, how careful she was with me, I with her. It was natural, the roles we fell into, I was there to protect her whilst my brother got his shit together enough to go back to her. But she is gentle, all of the women in my family are, Grace is, the way she is with creatures and nature and her sons. You wouldn”t think she were capable of the bloody mutilation messes I’ve cleaned up for her.
My mother was never gentle, not by the end. She was cruel and manipulative and violent, and we let her do whatever she wanted to us.
For love.
A hiss escapes me when soft fingers tear off the tape in one quick rip. My eyes flying open and immediately falling onto her.
Her.
Luna.
Ice-chip eyes and alabaster skin. Everything about her is icy and pale, all except for that hair.
Luna is staring at me, her expression blank, as it always is, but it’s as though, despite her blank look, I can feel her anger towards me.
Perhaps anger is too strong of a word, dislike maybe, or irritation.
Maybe she can’t fucking stand me, the way I wish I couldn’t stand her.
“Ouch,” I exaggerate, showing too many teeth with my snarl, but she doesn’t react, she hardly even blinks, those heavy fans of onyx lashes a mere half flutter over her bright eyes.
This time, she doesn’t say sorry. This time, her chest stills, the tips of her fingers like an electric zap where they rest over my heart. Spikey stitches jutting out of the centre of my chest, she brushes over them with a ghost-like touch, but her eyes never leave mine.
It’s as though time slows, not to a complete stop, but enough that every breath feels like I’m inhaling grave dirt, the consecrated earth burning its way down my oesophagus. It tastes like death on the back of my tongue, my future, my brief past, where my heart let me down four times before they could stabilise me enough to dig around inside of my chest cavity for the 9mm piece of metal.
That’s why I can’t stand to look at her.
Can’t stand not to look at her.
Because when I look upon this delicate face, pale pink lips almost the same shade as her skin, her top lip so much plumper than the bottom, it makes her look like she’s wearing a constant pout, her lips pulled into something that almost resembles a moue. Her nose long and straight, pronounced, but still soft on her face between the high arches of her cheekbones. There is not a blemish on her skin. Not a freckle, not a mole, a scar, a birthmark, she is heavenly, untouched, and my insides twist with the way I would like to mess it all up.
See redness bloom in the shape of my fingertips around the pale length of her neck. A bruise dug deep into her clavicle, each little crescent shape mark a bright pale blue from my teeth. I want to see my handprints on her arse, beard burn from my face in the creamy junction of her thighs. Mostly, I want to feel her long fingers tear the band from my loop of hair, thread into the chin-length, black strands, her palm cradling the crown of my head before she twists the inky strands and rips my head back.
“I am always very careful with you.”
That’s what she says, it’s spoken with her usual dulcet tone, quiet and soft, but a little rough, gravelly, like she doesn’t often speak. Doesn’t use her voice. And it’s all I want her to do. With me. Speak. No matter what it is she says, I want to hear it.
“I know,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “You are.” Her eyes flick between mine, her face soft and blank, I want to see emotion on it, a smile, a frown, anything. “Thank you,” I tell her, and she looks away, continues checking my wound.
It feels sinful, these quiet moments in the night, stolen together, the room is always dimly lit, the hall beyond bright light like the sun, but I can’t relax all day, waiting for her shift to start. So when dinner is served and cleaned up, and the lights in my room are dimmed, I know it won’t be long.
I find all sorts of excuses to get her in here, more often than just her blood pressure checks and wellness questions. None of the other nurses want to deal with me anyway.
Because of who I am.
What I am.
My last name.
Luna, though, is completely oblivious. Or so it seems. She is never cautious around me in a frightened way, she never looks at me too long, but when she does it’s without any sort of judgement.
It feels good.
Too good.
I’ll be discharged soon and I’ll never see her again.
Saying nothing in response, she carries on assessing my chest, I let my eyes close once more, and her fingers leave my skin. The sound of her opening up a fresh dressing is loud in the room, and when her touch comes back to me, I flinch. It is like electric shocks bolting through my veins, bringing me to life with the mere touch of her. I wonder, not for the first time, why I’m such an arsehole to her.
It’s like we’re in the playground and I’m pulling on her pigtails and shoving her into the dirt. Because I like her.
What’s worse is that so do my brothers.
My dad.
They’re all on first name basis with her like they’re longtime friends, and me, I can’t even form her name on my tongue before I’m being a rude fuck.
My stomach clenches with thoughts of Raine. He’s the only one who hasn’t been by, hasn’t text, hasn’t called. No one knows where he is and no one can get hold of him. He has a lot of issues, he uses a lot of substances to cope with things that haunt him, and sometimes he’ll disappear for days, he always comes back, but he’s never disappeared after shooting his brother before either, that’s what has me worrying.
But that’s no reason to treat this woman, who is never anything but gentle with me, like shit.
I’m thirty-four years old, I need to get a fucking grip.
I open my eyes, lips parting to finally, finally speak her name, and the door’s are swinging closed at her back as she leaves me alone once more.
I don’t press the call button again for the rest of her shift, but I do manage to hobble out into the hall after watching her step inside one of the storage rooms.
“Wolf!” Luna whispers with alarm as I stumble into the tiny room, clinging onto a shelf for balance.
Shelves and shelves of dressings and bandages in different coloured trays line the walls, filling the room.
“What are you doing out of bed?” her bright eyes flick frantically over my shoulder, through the open door towards the hall at my back, so I slap out my hand and manage to dislodge it from the doorstop.
It shuts slowly, one of those soft-closing safety features, and then I’m slumping back against it, my breathing ragged in my chest, dizziness tightening my lungs, but I keep myself up, clad only in a loose pair of black boxer shorts, I stay standing.
“I was a dick,” I say sternly, frowning at myself, “and I needed to apologise.”
With a thud, my head drops back against the solid wood, no sound filtering in from outside the door, and I stare down at her, her big eyes wide on mine. She looks nervous but she doesn’t flinch back, she doesn’t try to step away, and she could, I’m useless in this state, and she’s got plenty of space if she wanted to avoid me.
“I don’t want to scare you,” I whisper the words, closing my eyes for a second as black spots burst in my vision.
“You don’t,” she breathes, a shuddery exhale. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, Mr Blackwell.”
“Wolf,” I rasp.
“Wolf,” she repeats quietly, and it’s like a tether tugs at my balls, heat sinking into my stomach.
“I love hearing you say my name,” I confess, and it feels so unlike me, but it doesn’t feel wrong in this moment, it feels important that she knows.
“We need to get you back to bed,” she says, her voice still a whisper, cracking with urgency to get me to comply.
“I needed to get you alone, just for a moment,” I push off of the door, fisting the metal pole of a shelving unit dividing the room.
Luna backs up, bumping into it, her head tipped back, her pretty eyes on mine, “Wolf,” she warns again, and it makes my dick throb in response.
I dip my face down into hers, clinging onto the shelving unit to hold me up, our lips almost brushing. She sucks in a sharp breath, my own rushing over her mouth as I exhale heavily. Her hands come to my chest, fingertips delicate over the rough gauze taped over my stitches.
“Wolf.”
“Fuck, I love that,” I murmur against her lips, my cock sitting heavy in my boxers. “Let me take you to dinner,” I tilt my head, slanting my mouth over hers, my whiskey-caramel eyes flicking between her icy-blues. “I’ve been a grumpy shit with you,” I lick my lips as I say it, catching her cupid’s bow, her expression softening. “Let me show you I’m not really like that. Say yes, Luna.”
“I can’t,” it’s barely a whisper, but to me it rings loud and clear as if she’d shouted it at me.
“Okay,” I lick my lips again, brushing them across hers, making her gasp in surprise, before I pull back.
Fuck, I want to kiss you.
Luna frowns, just enough to carve a little crevice between her inky brows, it makes me want to smile.
“I respect women enough to understand no means no,” I tell her honestly, reaching up with my free hand to run my thumb along her jaw, smoothing the rough pad of it just beneath her ear. “Even if your rejection hurts worse than this bullet hole in my heart.” I cough a laugh, spluttering with a deep, chesty groan.
“We need to get you back to bed, Wolf,” Luna’s eyes flare as she says it, her fingers firmer against my chest, they singe everywhere they touch, fingerprints burning into my flesh.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me, Luna?” I drop my head forward, staring down between us, my eyes shuttering closed once more.
“I can’t,” she whispers, her short nails curling into the bandage, “but it’s not-” she cuts herself off as I look up into her eyes, our mouths hovering too close.
“It’s not what?”
She swallows, glancing away, and I’m catching her chin, drawing her gaze back. The room is hot, and we’re breathing each other’s air, the way we are so close. I could devour her where we stand, but I don’t lean into her further, not in the way I crave. Instead, I just hold her chin, gently enough she could escape if she wanted to, but she doesn’t try.
“It’s not because I don’t want to.” My eyes flicker between hers, icy-blue and bright, even in the shadowed space of this cupboard, trying to read her.
“What does that mean, Luna?”
“It means, I can’t,” she shakes her head, drawing in a deep breath. “You need to get back into bed before you get me in trouble.”
Without waiting for me to say anything in response, she’s hooking her shoulder beneath my arm and guiding me back to my room.