Chapter Twenty-Two Wren #2
It took time, sweat beading on my brow, my hands slick and clammy, but I finished his back. Another splash of liquor, and then I ripped at one of the old sheets, forming strips. I positioned the makeshift wrappings as I used both hands to turn him over, exhausted, my muscles aching.
Damien flopped on his back with a thump, and I grimaced.
Repeating the process with his chest, I cleaned the wound before stitching where the tip of the blade had come through. My hands had steadied, thankfully, but the rest of me shivered violently as a few tears slipped free from my eyes. Damn me and my inconvenient emotions.
“Sunshine,” he muttered, his voice soft, an agonized whimper.
“I’m right here,” I said, more tears falling down my cheeks. His plea sent a shot of adrenaline pumping through my veins.
“I’m going to fix you up, Damien. We’re almost done,” I coaxed, but he didn’t reply. Just mumbled incoherently.
Once his chest was disinfected and stitched, I used a large portion of the ripped sheet and wound it tightly around his upper shoulder and torso, grateful that the knife hadn’t struck anything vital. I grunted, my body blanketed in sweat as I moved him, but he must’ve passed out again.
He’d better fucking wake up.
Already, he looked better, at least from the outside. I had no doubt he’d lost blood on his way here. Which I didn’t understand. Why not go to the bar? To the bartender who rented him his room? Rather, he’d come across the city. To me.
I sat back on my heels for a moment, the fatigue weighting my arms. My white nightdress clung to me, all sticky and red, and I bet I had streaks of blood on my face.
Before I tended to myself, I laid down a thick blanket I found in the closet and an extra pillow.
I wouldn’t be physically able to haul him into bed after what I’d just done, but I hated the idea of him sprawled on the floor.
Slipping both hands under his arms, I gradually pulled him over to the pallet, mindful of his new stitches. He groaned, which I took as a good sign, when I arranged his body on the padded blanket. Lifting his head, I slid the pillow below and pushed his dark, sweat-soaked hair from his pale brow.
Wetting another scrap of cloth, I dabbed at his face, cleaning some blood from his hard features, which were rigid even in his sleep.
The cloth stained instantly, and I soaked the cloth with fresh water before wiping it across his muscular arms. My eyes were traitors, wishing to linger on his impressive form, and the heat in my cheeks slid down my neck.
Not the time, Wren. Fates.
At long last, hours after he’d arrived and tumbled into my room, I cleaned myself. I threw away the nightdress in the bin beneath my sink, hidden by other rubbish, and washed as best I could without waking the house by running a bath. The pipes in this old house were noisy.
Slipping on a fresh nightdress, I wandered back to his side. Without thinking—because I wasn’t really thinking at the moment—I went to my knees beside Damien.
I shouldn’t lie down beside him. Shouldn’t be wearing just my nightdress, pressing myself against his bare torso. But should had always been a suggestion.
Unable to think of sleeping in my bed in case he needed me sometime during the night, I curled up around him, one of my hands pressed against his chest. Right over his heart.
Damien had come to me when he needed help. Not his best friend or Cap. He dragged himself across town to my window.
And that knowledge twisted something within me. Changed something.
I held him close, ignoring his feverish skin and instead feeling the beating of his heart beneath my palm.
He’s alive. Still alive.
It didn’t matter that I was still furious with him, or that he’d hurt me. We could talk about that tomorrow. Right now, all I cared about was that his heart continued to beat. That he hadn’t left this world. Left me.
“Wr-Wren,” he murmured in lucid sleep, his head lolling to the side, close to mine. “You’re h-here.”
“I’m here,” I replied. My heart tugged at the sound of his desperate voice, and I leaned closer, not an inch separating our bodies.
Damien’s hand fumbled around as if searching for mine. I clasped it, intertwining our fingers over his chest. His grip strengthened as he begged, “Don’t l-leave, s-sunshine.”
“I won’t,” I promised, squeezing his fingers in assurance. “I’ll be beside you all night.”
He hummed, eyes still closed. “I th-think I like the s-sound of that.” His face turned to nuzzle my hair, and my heart fluttered as he took in an audible inhale. “You s-smell like my f-favorite,” he whispered. “I love how you s-smell. How you t-taste.”
Heat burned my cheeks. He was delirious. Still, I couldn’t find the words to reply. To relay what he’d done to my insides with words alone.
“I wish you knew the real m-me,” he said, his nose grazing mine. “But then I…I would dull your shine.”
I shook my head, even if he couldn’t see. “No, you wouldn’t, Damien,” I said firmly. “I want to know the real you, too. You just don’t let me see inside.”
He played the role of nonchalant thief. Of a criminal with a cocky swagger. But ever since I’d glimpsed that postcard—or maybe before—I knew there was so much more he hid beneath his practiced exterior.
Another hum, and then, “I think I’ve always l-liked you, Wren. Even wh-when I hated you.” He let out a weak laugh. “You remind m-me of safety. L-light. Hope.”
I wanted to pry, to ask him his innermost thoughts while he was in such a state. But I wouldn’t take advantage. Even if it killed me.
“I think I like you, too, Damien,” I said instead. “Even when I hate you.”
Tilting my head, I found a soft smile on his lips—a smile I’d put there.
With the little strength he had left, Damien slipped his arm around my body and pulled me in so my head rested on the uninjured side of his chest. Skin to skin, my ear listening to the steady pounding beneath it, I smiled, too.
“Good night, thief.”
Damien ran his hand down my arm, sending tingles racing and goose bumps rising. “Night, sunshine. D-dream of me.”