Chapter 13 Definitely Not Trying To Kiss Her #2
One corner of her mouth jerks, the closest she’ll get to a smile. “Asshole.”
A faint curve pulls at mine. “Sometimes.”
I clean the wounds again, this time with a proper cleanser, then pat her skin dry around them. I don’t tell her this part will hurt. She already knows. Instead, I keep my thumb firm at the inside of her wrist, grounding, steady.
She watches me now instead of the ceiling, eyes tracking every movement. I can feel the weight of it, heavy and curious, like she isn’t sure when exactly I became someone she’s allowed to look at like this.
“Why do you do that?” Her voice drifts in after a minute, quieter now that the immediate danger’s gone.
“Do what?” I keep working, eyes focused on her palm as I stay careful with the pressure.
“Take care of everyone.” She watches me from under her lashes, her tone pointed even while she tries to pass it off as casual. “You’re not getting paid overtime for this.”
“Maybe I just like bossing you around.” The corner of my mouth lifts as I press the gauze into place, pretending that answer costs me nothing.
“Hmm. That doesn't sound like the whole story.” She arches a brow, challenging me to tell her the truth.
“Fine.” I fold the gauze neatly, fingers steady even when my chest isn’t. “It bothers me when people I care about bleed in front of me.”
She goes still, the shift so sudden it’s almost louder than a flinch.
“You care about me?” The question comes out flat, like she doesn’t know where to put it.
“You make it sound like a disease.” I keep my tone light, but my gaze flicks up to her anyway, checking to see how she took that.
“It kind of is,” she mutters, cutting her eyes away for a second as if distance will make it less real. “In fact, it’s terminal, if you get too attached.”
“Good thing I know first aid.” I glance back down at her hand, grounding myself in something I can actually fix. “Relax your fingers.”
She does, just enough to let me wrap around her knuckles, winding the gauze between them, securing it in place. My hands dwarf hers, covering the mess I’ve cleaned, turning it into something contained and manageable.
Her eyes drop to the way my fingers move, the way I handle her hand like it’s breakable even though we both know she isn’t.
“That’s too neat.” Her voice drops when I tape the last piece down, quiet in a way that makes the words feel heavier. “It feels fake.”
“It’s not.” I smooth the tape once more, then still my hands before I overdo it. “I just know what I’m doing.”
“You always do.” She watches me for a second longer, the line landing as plain fact. Not a compliment. Not an insult. Just observation.
I let go of her wrist, but my hand doesn’t go far. It lands on the table, palm up, close enough she’d only have to move an inch to put hers in it again.
“Take these in a minute.” I set two painkillers in front of her, then nudge her water glass closer with the edge of my hand. “Don’t argue.”
“You really think you get to say that here?” She looks around the room pointedly, as if the walls themselves will back her up. “You’re in my house.”
“And you invited me in.” I lean back a fraction, letting the smallest grin through. “Terrible mistake.”
“Yeah.” Her mouth pulls to one side, dry amusement trying to pretend it isn’t. “Now I’m being bossed around in my own home.”
A quiet huff of laughter slips out of me before I can stop it. She grabs the pills with her good hand, tosses them back, chases them with water, then sets the glass down with a soft clink.
For a second, neither of us moves. Her shoulders sink slowly, inch by inch, tension slipping off as the adrenaline fades and leaves her with nothing but the aftermath.
“Are you sure they’re okay?” The question comes out suddenly, her eyes fixed on the sink instead of me.
“As sure as I am that you would’ve broken his nose if I hadn’t picked you up.” I keep my tone steady, letting it be what it is. “So, very.”
“That’s not an answer.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, as if meeting my gaze would make her admit she’s scared.
“It is.” I hold the line, calm on purpose. “Just not the one you want.”
Her jaw works, frustration morphing into something she can actually aim. “I hate this,” she says at last. “Sitting around. Worrying. It’s not something I like to do.”
“You're used to taking care of things on your own.” I keep it plain, no sugar, no softness she’ll reject. “But there’s nothing you need to worry about, Raine. They can handle themselves against those drunk idiots.”
“I still hate it.” Her voice drops on the last word, then she finally looks at me again, eyes tired and stubborn in the same breath.
“You’re not the only one who fights dirty. They’ll be fine. We can all handle ourselves. Even more when we’re pissed that someone we care about got hurt.”
She leans back in the chair, studying me the way she studies a bolt she doesn’t trust. The kettle sits quiet on the stove behind her, the house still enough that the silence feels loud. “You know, you sound terrifying when you say shit like that, right?”
“Good.” The word lands simple, final.
Her eyes flare a little. There it is. That flash of interest she tries to swallow every time it shows up.
“We should clean the rest of you up.” My gaze drops to the smear of blood on her forearm, then returns to her face. “You’ve got more of that on you than you think.”
“You planning to strip me down and put me in the shower?” The question comes out dry, teasing, built to keep it light since she doesn’t believe I actually would.
Any other day, I’d prove her wrong. Tonight, she’s had three shots and almost started a fight in a bar. So, instead, I hold her gaze, let the quiet do the work.
“If I was, you wouldn’t be asking.”
Her breath stutters as the space between us pulls tight.
“Living room.” My voice drops without losing firmness as I nod toward the sagging couch, the one that’s clearly seen more sleep than the bedroom. “That chair’s punishing you. The couch will be better.”
She stands without arguing this time. That alone tells me how tired she is. I follow her the few steps to the couch, having her sit. I grab the towel from the kitchen, wet a corner under the faucet, wring it out, then come back and sit beside her.
“Arm.” I hold my palm out for her, open and steady, keeping my voice even so she doesn’t hear the edge underneath it.
She extends it slowly, cautious even. Her skin is warm. There’s dried blood and a faint red line where a shard must’ve grazed her. Relief hits first. Anger follows close behind it, sharp enough to keep me focused.
“It's a surface wound.” The words come measured as I wipe gently along the line. “You got lucky.”
“Didn’t feel lucky.” Her gaze drops to her arm, annoyed with herself. “Felt like an idiot who doesn’t watch where she’s stepping.”
“Adrenaline.” I keep the towel moving in slow strokes, careful pressure. “You were focused on Theo.”
“Yeah, well.” She swallows, throat working. “He shouldn’t have stood in front of me like that.”
“I think he’d disagree.”
“He’s wrong.” The snap isn’t really about Theo. It’s about what could’ve happened. It’s about not being able to stop it.
“No.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “He’s choosing. Same as me. Same as Jax.”
“Choosing what, exactly?” She tries to make it bite, but it lands closer to fear. “To piss me off?”
There it is. Her version of caring, of panic.
“Choosing you.” I don’t soften it. Don’t dress it up. “Your safety. Your health. You.”
Her breath leaves her through her nose, hard and controlled, but she doesn’t argue again. That silence is its own kind of surrender, and it pulls something tight through my chest.
I wipe the last of the blood away, then check the line again. It's shallow and clean. An injury that should be forgettable, yet my hands still don’t want to let anything happen to her that I could’ve prevented.
Control isn’t about ego for me. It never has been. It’s what keeps people from slipping through the cracks while everyone else assumes someone will step in.
“You always this… in control?” Her voice comes in quiet, testing, her eyes on my hands.
“Yes.” The answer is automatic.
“At the bar,” she adds, not letting me hide behind the simple version. “At work. With your friends. With me.”
“Yes.” No apology. No hesitation.
She shifts closer, a small movement, but it changes the space between us. “That doesn’t exhaust you?”
“Being in control?” I glance up at her, then back to her arm, thumb settling lightly at her wrist as if the contact keeps us both steady. “No.” A beat. Then the truth that sits under the calm. “Watching people I care about crash because nobody stepped in? That does.”
Her tongue slides over her bottom lip, slow and absent-minded. My gaze follows before I can stop it.
She catches it immediately.
“Elias.” Her voice drops, warning threaded with something else. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” My thumb clears the last faint trace of red from her skin, a small excuse to keep my hands busy.
“Like you’re about to do something you can’t take back.”
“I’m not.” The words come out steady, but they aren’t the whole truth.
“You’re not?” Skepticism edges her voice, but she doesn’t pull away.
I set the towel aside slowly, then look at her fully. “If I do it,” I say, quiet enough that it feels private in her too-still house, “I’m not taking it back.”
Her breath comes a little faster now, chest rising under her shirt. Her bandaged hand curls in her lap; her good one flexes once on the couch cushion between us.
I turn toward her fully, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other hand planting on the cushion by her hip, caging her in without touching more than I have to.
The movement brings us close enough that I can see the faint smudge of eyeliner at the outer corner of her eye, the way her pupils are blown wide from the night and the liquor and the fight she didn’t get to finish.