Chapter 3 It’s a Wound-erful Life #2
Well, that and the fact that I don’t want anyone else to hear what Flint sounds like when he’s coming undone. We may not have a mating bond, but it turns out that doesn’t stop me from being a jealous fuck when it matters—that’s for me and no one else.
Because I don’t have a lot of time to explain myself, I jump right in. “Look, I know you’re still mad at me for the whole bullet thing—”
“You mean the you-deliberately-getting-shot thing?” he lobbies right back.
“Whatever you want to call it—you can yell at me about it all you want later. But when you go up there in a few minutes, you need to watch your back—”
“Watch my back with my father?” He looks incredulous. “What exactly do you expect to happen up there?”
“I don’t think it’s just your father waiting for you upstairs. If he wanted you, he would just text you like he usually does. Instead, he sent two guards to get you—one of whom refused to leave and is still standing outside this suite. Does that seem normal to you?”
“Nothing seems normal to me right now,” he answers. And there’s a look in his eye that tells me he’s talking about much more than just what’s going on in this Court.
It hits me in the gut, has my whole body tensing in preparation for a blow. Because he’s right. Things aren’t normal between us and haven’t been in… I don’t know. Forever, maybe? But that’s a problem for another night. Right now, we just need to figure out how to get through tonight.
“Sit down,” Flint says, nodding for me to grab a seat on the vanity again. “If I’m supposed to go up there and ‘watch my back’—whatever the hell that means—I’m going to make damn sure that wound is clean first.”
I think about telling him I can do it myself, but it’s not worth arguing about right now when I have other things to talk to him about.
So I hop up next to the sink, turning so my wounded side is facing him. The wound stopped bleeding a while ago, and the gash is about half the size it was. But the skin around it is red and angry-looking enough that even I can see a shower isn’t going to cut it.
“My father would never hurt me,” he continues as he reaches for the peroxide and a large square of gauze.
He says it with a confidence I envy, even as I’m happy for him. While I’ve never been able to say the same about Cyrus, I’m glad as hell that Flint can say it about Aiden.
Before I can tell him that, though, he goes after my wound with what feels like a damn scouring pad.
“What the fuck?” I hiss.
He shoots me a deliberately innocent look. “I’m just trying to make sure it’s clean here.”
“So pour some peroxide on it and call it a damn day, will you?”
He hums what sounds like an assent…right before he starts scrubbing again.
Deep inside me, my dragon roars. His talons spring through my fingertips and prick Flint just hard enough to draw a drop or two of blood.
His amber eyes shoot up to mine, and relief sweeps over me. Looks like Flint was right—the bullet was dipped in something to stop me from being able to shift for a little while. Now that it’s worn off, my dragon is back and raring to go.
Relief turns my knees weak, has me grabbing onto Flint for support.
But he looks shaky, too, his face flushed with a relief as deep and abiding as my own.
Before I can give that relief a voice, there’s a loud, persistent knock on the front door.
“Sounds like you’re out of time.” I place a hand over his and gently pull him away from his way-too-enthusiastic scrubbing duties—which is the whole reason I didn’t want him to clean the wound to begin with.
Give the dragon a few medical supplies, and he suddenly thinks he’s a damn surgeon.
He pulls away reluctantly, dropping the used gauze in the small trash can next to the sink. “Make sure you put a shit ton of antibiotic ointment on that.”
“I will, and in exchange, you have to promise to be careful up there. I don’t know exactly what they’ve got planned, and I’m sure your father doesn’t, either. But I guarantee you there’s some kind of trap. So, whatever you do, don’t let yourself get complacent.”
Another knock sounds on the door—even louder and more impatient than the one that came thirty seconds ago.
“It’ll be fine.” He washes his hands, then heads toward my bedroom, yanking his bloody shirt over his head as he goes. “The Council never does its own dirty work—tonight being a perfect case in point.”
“Yeah, well, there’s always a first time,” I tell him as he grabs my red shirt out of the dresser and pulls it over his head. It’s a little tight on him—he’s got broader shoulders and a more heavily muscled torso than I do—but the color looks great against his brown skin.
“Not necessarily.” He starts to say more, but this time Melanie doesn’t settle for a knock.
She starts pounding on the door, her hand slapping against the wood as she calls, “We need to go, Flint. Now.” It’s more command than ask.
He shoots me a wide-eyed what the hell look as he heads back into the living area.
I respond with one of my own. And a quiet, “Text me if you need me,” as he yanks open the door.
He doesn’t respond, just shuts the door behind him. And leaves me waiting for yet another shoe to drop.