Chapter 18 Willow
WILLOW
My heart crawls up my throat as I stare at the three brothers.
I just saw them not that long ago. They were okay then, their usual selves. Malice was cocky and infuriating, pushing my buttons and stretching my boundaries the way he always does.
And now he’s hurt.
Hurt badly, if the amount of blood soaked into his dress shirt is anything to go by. Victor and Ransom have a handful of injuries between them, but none of them seem to be that serious compared to Malice.
“We need to get him horizontal,” Ransom says. “Before he passes out and takes care of that for us.”
I nod, letting that spur me into action. Standing around staring at them in shock isn’t going to help anything, so I gesture quickly for them to follow me, then lead them back into my room.
“Put him on the bed,” I instruct, and Vic and Ransom go to help him lie down.
“Wait.” Malice resists, grimacing as he shakes his head. “I’ll get blood on your sheets.”
I gape at him incredulously. “What are you… I don’t care about that right now!”
How could that even matter at a time like this?
He holds my gaze with his stormy eyes, his jaw working as a small trail of blood oozes down the front of his shirt. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in his head, but he finally relents and eases himself into a lying position, wincing in pain.
Ransom sits on the bed beside him and cuts his shirt open, revealing the bloody wound on Malice’s torso. It’s on his side, just above his right hip, and I can’t look away from it as more blood pulses softly from the tear in his skin.
“I…” My voice dies out. I have to swallow hard, forcing the words out past numb lips. “I don’t have a first aid kit or anything.”
Ransom shoots me a grin that’s nowhere near as bright as his usual charming one. But he holds up a case on a strap that’s been slung over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, pretty girl. We’re always prepared for this kind of shit.”
There’s something a bit horrifying about the fact that these three men feel a need to be prepared for an injury like this at any time, but I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I stand near the foot of the bed, feeling useless as Ransom stands up and Vic takes his spot on the mattress beside Malice.
I was keeping my distance at first, but I inch closer as Victor gets to work, unable to help myself.
After rummaging through the first aid kit with his usual precision, he starts cleaning the wound, using gauze pads soaked in antiseptic.
Malice doesn’t flinch once as the gash is cleaned, but the pain is clear to see in his eyes. He stares at the ceiling, hands clenched into fists as Vic works quickly and efficiently, starting to stitch him up.
I can’t look away from it, creeping around the side of the bed to stand even closer. Vic’s hands are steady and sure as he moves the needle, drawing it and the suture thread through Malice’s skin, joining torn flesh on either side.
After a few seconds, I become aware that Malice is looking up at me as I lean over him, but I ignore his heavy gaze.
Instead, I glance over at Ransom, who’s taken up a spot on the other side of the bed.
“What happened?”
“There was an accident,” Ransom says with a sigh. There’s a dark streak on his cheek, and I think it might be blood. “Our car was totaled. We were too far from our place to walk, especially with Malice in this condition.”
I suck in a breath, worry making my skin chill.
“Did it have to do with your job for X?” I ask.
“Yeah. It didn’t go quite as planned. But I mean, can you imagine if we’d tried to call a cab looking like this? Malice would have bled all over the seat, and we can’t afford that kind of cleaning fee.”
He smiles crookedly, clearly trying to change the subject, but his attempt at levity doesn’t really fool me.
Malice is hurt, bleeding all over my bed, and even though Victor’s hands are steady and precise as he stitches his brother up, I can see the scrapes and cuts on him too.
Ransom looks tired, despite the way he’s trying to put on a brave face.
Something bad happened. Something that they weren’t expecting, or they would have had some kind of backup plan for it. Showing up at my place definitely wasn’t supposed to be in the cards for them tonight, I’m sure.
My stomach twists itself into a knot, and I stare down at the floor.
I worry about these men, even though I’m not sure I should.
I probably shouldn’t, considering everything, but I can’t seem to help it.
They’re under my skin, just like Malice said earlier tonight.
And fuck, “earlier tonight” feels like it might as well have been a completely different day already.
I shift my attention back to Malice again just in time to see him grimace in pain—the first time I’ve seen him react this strongly to the needle Victor is dragging through his flesh.
His face is pale, and his teeth are gritted tightly together.
There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and even though Vic is working as neatly and quickly as he can, that’s clearly not enough to keep the pain from setting in.
“Do you…” I start speaking before I can think better of it, then stop. I take a deep breath and try again. “Do you need some painkillers or something? I have some extra strength Tylenol, I think.”
Malice shakes his head, and his eyes are tight at the corners when he looks at me.
“No. I don’t need that shit,” he grates out. “What I need is a fucking drink. Do you have anything?”
I hesitate for a second, but then nod, turning to go to the kitchen. This is going to be showing my hand in a big way, but… there are extenuating circumstances. Or something like that.
In the cabinet above the fridge, I have a bottle of liquor. Specifically whiskey, and even more specifically, the same kind that we drank the night Ransom and Malice fucked me.
My fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle as I bring it back to the bedroom and then hold it out for Malice to take.
He looks at the label and then back to me, and something passes over his face. Something that makes me pretty sure he understands the significance of me having this.
It’s stupid, in a way.
I wanted to leave that night behind, forget about it and them and everything that was weighing on me. But I still went and bought this bottle. I’m not even much of a whiskey drinker, but I liked it on the night we all drank it together, and I like it now because of that memory.
Malice doesn’t say anything, thankfully. He just takes a few swigs from the bottle, sitting up partway so that he doesn’t spill it everywhere.
Vic shoots him an annoyed look at all the moving around, but doesn’t say anything. A second later, he ties off the thread and snips the excess with the tiny scissors from their first aid kit. He cleans the wound again and then covers it with gauze and medical tape.
“There,” he says, leaning back. “That should hold you for a while. You’re going to have to keep that clean or it’s going to get infected.”
He shoots Malice another look, and I wonder if he’s warning his twin about that because that’s been an issue before. Malice definitely strikes me as the type of person to play fast and loose with things like his health or recovering from an injury.
“It’ll be fine, Vic,” Malice grunts. He sets the bottle on the nightstand and then starts scooting toward the edge of the bed like he’s going to get up.
“Wait. What are you doing?” I ask, frowning.
“We should go,” he says, not looking at me. “Get out of your hair now that I’m not bleeding out.”
I march closer to the bed and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to push him back down. It’s a testament to how shitty he must feel that I actually manage to get him to move an inch.
“Don’t be stupid,” I tell him bluntly. “You need to rest. You literally just got into a car accident and were impaled by something.”
Ransom chuckles, looking mildly entertained by our battle of wills. “I guess she told you,” he murmurs.
Malice grumbles something under his breath in Russian, but he lets me push him back down.
“She has a good point,” Ransom continues once Malice’s head hits the pillow again. “You should take it easy for a bit. We’re not in any hurry to get home, so it doesn’t matter if we leave now or not. It’s more important that you get some rest.”
“Yes,” Vic agrees, nodding. Then he glances at me. “Willow, can I use your bathroom? I want to wash my hands.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I don’t even bother to direct him to it, since I’m almost certain he already knows where it is. Considering the cameras he had Malice put up the last time he was here, and Vic’s whole… Vic-ness, it would be more of a shock if he didn’t know the layout of my entire apartment already.
Ransom follows Vic out of the bedroom when he goes, and I’m about to head out with them, to give Malice some peace and quiet so he can rest. But something holds me back, and I hesitate, turning to look at the man stretched out on my bed.
Carefully, I step closer and then perch on the edge of the mattress, taking the spot Victor was just in.
It’s weird to see Malice like this. He doesn’t seem quite…
diminished, but there’s definitely something different about him now that he’s been injured.
Maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen him laid low like this before.
All my memories of him are dynamic, him simmering with anger or practically vibrating with the need to hit something.
He’s not someone I associate with stillness.
But here he is, lying in my bed. Not quite broken, but not quite whole either.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask softly. “I can still get those painkillers if the whiskey isn’t helping. Or maybe some water?”
Malice snorts. “I’m fine, Solnyshka,” he says. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt. Won’t be the last.”
“You say that like you’re sure.”
He shrugs. “I am.”
“Does it hurt, though?”
“I’ve had worse.”
I glance down at his body, taking in the new wound and the neat job Victor did in cleaning it up. It doesn’t even look out of place with the rest of him.
Most of his torso is taken up by tattoos and various scars, some shallow and neatly healed, others puckered and angry looking even now that they’re old. So I know he isn’t lying about having experienced worse.
I swallow hard, feeling almost nervous for some reason.
“Do you ever wish you had a life where you didn’t get hurt so often?” I whisper.
Malice huffs, making a noise in his throat. “Nah. I don’t know how I’d function if I had a quiet life like that. How the hell would I know I was alive if I didn’t brush up against death every once in a while?”
There’s something bright in his eyes that makes it seem like he’s joking, but at the same time, it’s hard to say how much of him believes it and how much is just kidding.
The words make my heart clench, and even now, I don’t want to think about him having too many close calls with death. It just doesn’t sit right in my heart, and it makes a panicky feeling flutter in my stomach.
“Don’t die, okay?” I murmur, almost too soft to hear.
But of course he does hear it.
He turns his head a little, and his gaze burns right into me. “Why? Why don’t you want me to die?”
There are probably a hundred different reasons, but I can’t get myself to say any of them.
They all feel too intimate, too close to admitting things that I don’t want to feel, let alone say.
I could tell him that it’s because I don’t want his brothers to have to miss him, but then, why should I care about that?
If I’m supposed to be cutting them out of my life, why would I care about any of it?
That’s the biggest question, of course, and I don’t have it in me to try to figure out the answer right now.
So instead, I drag my gaze away from Malice’s and put my walls back up a little, shutting him out.
“You need to get some rest,” I tell him, getting up from the bed. “Sleep, if you can.”
“Solnyshka.”
Malice’s voice is low, and there’s something in it that stops me in my tracks, my hand resting on the door handle.
It’s not that there’s a command in his tone. It’s more like… vulnerability, and it pierces right through the armor I thought I just erected around myself. I turn around, swallowing as our gazes meet.
“What?” I ask.
“Stay.”
Just that single word does something to me. It’s halfway between an order and a plea, and I feel rooted to the spot by it. I could easily say no. I could tell Malice that he needs peace and quiet to sleep, and that I won’t be of help with that. But I don’t.
Instead, I stay right where I am, leaning against the door while I watch him—as if keeping some physical distance between us will help with the emotional side of it.
The room descends into silence, and Malice goes for the whiskey bottle again, taking a few more deep pulls. Hopefully it will help dull the pain he’s in even more.
It really must hurt, but he’s dealing with it well. It’s just little things that give him away. The way he winces after he drinks, the tightness around his eyes, the way he keeps flattening his lips and breathing through his nose.
I wish I could shake loose the part of me that can pick up on Malice’s tells, but there’s not really much I can do about it now. I know him, just like he knows me.
Now I guess we just have to decide what we want to do with that fact.
He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. With my arms wrapped around myself, I stay propped against the door until, after a long while, he finally falls asleep.
His head turns on the pillow, lips parted slightly, and the tension in his face smooths out a bit.
I can’t stop myself from watching him sleep, studying his face like I’m trying to memorize every line of it. There’s something indulgent in watching him while he can’t watch me back. It feels safer somehow than gazing at him when his eyes are open to read my expression.
He always sees too much.
He sees everything I try to hide from the world.
Malice makes a quiet noise in his throat, his brow furrowing and then smoothing out again, and once I’m sure he’s not going to wake again, I take my chance to slip silently from the room.