Chapter 8 Declan
DECLAN
She looks at me, crossing her arms the second I sit down.
"I said take the bandages," she says.
I rest my arm on the tray and lean back in the chair like I've got all fucking day.
"And I said no," I reply. "You do it. It's your job to treat injuries."
Her eyes narrow. "Not yours. Not again. Do it yourself."
There's a paper by her and she snatches it up, scanning whatever's written there like it's the most important document in the world.
"Try not to give me more reasons to want to kill you," I say softly, but she hears it.
She looks up at me, her nostrils flare, and for a second, I think she might actually throw something at me. Instead, she folds up the paper, turns on her heel, and grabs some gloves.
"Fine," she says, putting them on. "Whatever it takes to get you out of here."
She yanks open the cabinet and pulls some things out. Looks like cotton pads and some alcohol.
She doesn't speak as she pours the liquid onto the cotton and stomps over, grabbing my hand with a little too much force. "This is going to sting," she says, not waiting for me to respond.
She grabs my hand, and I feel the warmth of her fingers, enough through the glove.
She presses the pad into my knuckles, and the sting hits hard.
"These are deeper than before," she says, not looking up at my hand. "You're making a habit of this."
"Maybe I like having you patch me up," I say, and it even surprises me.
She glances up sharply. Her eyes are intense, studying me.
"That would be a waste of both our time," she says, reaching for some wipes.
I don't respond, but she's knocked me off a bit, like a hit you didn't see coming that stumbles you. You need a moment to regain your composure before retaliating.
She keeps working, silent except for the soft sounds of tearing bandage and rustling tape. I watch her face. The way her jaw tightens. The way she refuses to meet my eyes. Her hands are steady but her posture says she's pissed. I kind of like that.
When she finishes, she drops my hand like it burned her. "All done. You can go."
I don't move. Instead, I point to the cut above my eyebrow from our first encounter. "What about this?" I ask. "It's been itching a lot."
Her shoulders rise with a breath she doesn't want to take. She hesitates, then moves closer.
She peels the bandage back gently and examines the cut. Her thumb brushes my temple. This time, her touch is different. Still professional, still careful, but softer. Like something in her cracked a little.
"The stitches dissolved. It's healing fine," she says. "Keep some antibiotic ointment on it, especially before you train. Sweat can introduce bacteria."
"Like now?" I ask.
She sighs and pulls the bandage off completely. She turns and reaches for some fresh supplies.
She steps closer, between my spread legs, her body near enough that I can smell her scent over the antiseptic. It's something sweet. Peaches, maybe.
I can't help it. My eyes drop lower, to the swell of her breasts beneath her t-shirt. They rise and fall with each breath, and I find myself becoming very focused on her.
I look up at her. Not just her hands, but everything. Her lips. Her jaw. The way a strand of hair has come loose near her cheek.
I should hate this woman, shouldn't I? I mean, I've spent three years blaming her for Joyce's death, but my mind drifts back to Keira. Back to what she said. It wasn't her fault. Leave her alone. Blame the Albanians.
The last, I did. Killed ten of them, to be exact.
I made sure of that in the weeks after Joyce died.
Hunting them one by one, making them pay in blood for what they'd done.
I never found their boss, but the soldiers who held her back, who laughed as Joyce bled out, they're all gone, and with them eventually their entire operation.
And yet I still held onto my hatred for her. It was easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, I'd been wrong.
She finishes applying a fresh bandage to my eyebrow, her fingertips gentle against my skin.
I blink and my eyebrow feels better, my hands feel better.
"Well, you are good at this," I say.
"I told you before. It's all I have."
"Is it? All you have?"
"What else would I have?" she asks quietly.
I don't really have an answer to that.
"Don't fight in the tournament," she says, stepping away. "It needs more time."
"I'm not."
She starts cleaning up, disposing of the used supplies. I stay seated, watching her move around the small room.
"Your Albanian keepers. Where are they now?" I ask.
She stiffens, her back to me. "Fuck if I know. I don't belong to them. Or anyone."
I smile. "So if shit goes south right now, they wouldn't rush in to save you?"
She turns slowly, eyes flashing with anger. "I wouldn't need them."
My pulse ticks.
Before I can think about it, I'm up and on her, pinning her against the wall. My forearm braces beside her head, my other hand wrapped around her throat, our bodies inches apart.
"You sure about that?" I ask, moving my face close to hers.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but there's no fear in her eyes, only defiance and something else, something darker.
She doesn't move. Just stares at me.
And then she surprises the hell out of me.
Her hand moves. Fast.
One grabs my cock through my shorts with enough pressure to make me gasp.
At the same time, her other hand produces a scalpel from God knows where, and I glance down as she presses it against my side, dangerously close to what she's grabbing.
"Let go of me," she says, voice low, "if you want to keep your dick attached."
My cock twitches in her hand.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She feels it. I know she does.
We stare at each other, breathing hard. Her hand is still on me, and despite the threat, despite the blade at my side, the fire in her eyes is intoxicating.
I lift my hands slowly and step back, keeping them raised in a surrender position. She releases me but keeps her expression focused.
"You should thank my sister, you know," I say, aware of my growing arousal. "Her words convinced me to leave you alone. Said you'd suffered enough."
Lyra doesn't respond. She just stares at me, jaw clenched, eyes sharp, scalpel still in hand, her chest heaving slightly.
We look at each other for a moment and I turn and walk out, adjusting myself as I go. By the time I'm halfway down the hall, I'm laughing under my breath at the absurdity of it all. How the hell am I leaving the presence of a woman who threatened to cut off my dick with a rock-hard erection.
And the worst part is, I'm not sure if my body wants to fuck her or if my mind just wants her gone.