Chapter 8 #2
I dab at the blood with gauze. Carefully.
Gentle as I can be with wounds this severe.
Pressing just enough to clean, not enough to hurt more than necessary.
His skin is soft. Softer than I expected.
Softer than mine. The undamaged parts are smooth, unblemished.
Young. Pale. Almost translucent. I can see blue veins beneath the surface.
Can see his pulse jumping. The bones of his hand feel delicate under my fingers.
Fragile. Like bird bones. Like something that could snap with too much pressure.
"I'm sorry," I say after a moment. The words come out quieter than I intended. More honest than I wanted.
He looks up. Finally. Those dark eyes lock on mine. Wide. Surprised. Searching. Those dark eyes lock on mine. "For what?"
"Earlier. What I said. 'Neither did we.'" I focus on wrapping his hand.
Wind the gauze around. Once. Twice. Three times.
Making sure I cover everything. Making sure no wounds are exposed.
"That came out wrong. I didn't mean—you're not a burden, Max.
You're just... new. And change is hard for everyone.
" I tape the gauze down. Check that it's secure.
It'll need to be changed tomorrow. Maybe tonight if the bleeding doesn't stop.
"I don't want to be here." The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them. Raw. Honest. Painful.
They hit me harder than they should. Harder than I'm prepared for.
"I know." What else can I say? I do know. It's obvious. He wears it like a second skin.
"Your brother made that clear at dinner. Bane doesn't want me here. Zero doesn't want me here. You don't—" His voice is gaining momentum. Getting louder. More agitated. His breathing is speeding up again.
"I didn't say that." I cut him off. Firm. Clear. Meeting his eyes so he knows I mean it.
"You didn't have to." He looks away. Back at his hands. At the gauze wrapped around his right hand that's already spotted with blood seeping through.
I finish wrapping his right hand —tie it off, tape it down, make sure it's secure— and reach for his left. This one's worse. Significantly worse. I can see bone clearly on two knuckles. The third is split so deep I'm worried about nerve damage.
He needs stitches. Probably needs surgery. Definitely needs more than I can give him here.
But something tells me he won't go to a hospital. Won't let me call an ambulance. Won't explain this to doctors. Won't fill out paperwork. Won't answer questions. Won't let anyone else see him like this.
"I don't hate you," I say quietly. I start cleaning the left hand. More antiseptic. More gauze. More blood. "I don't know you well enough to hate you."
"That's comforting." Sarcasm. Defense mechanism. Armor.
"It's honest." I look up at him. Hold his gaze. Let him see I'm not lying.
He doesn't respond. Just watches me work. Watches me clean his wounds. Watches me take care of him even though we both know I have no obligation to. No reason to. No relationship that requires this level of care.
I clean the left hand. Carefully. Gently.
This one bleeds more. The wounds are deeper.
I use more gauze. More antiseptic. My hands are covered in his blood now.
Sticky. Drying. I don't care. Wrap it. Tape it.
The whole time, I'm acutely aware of how close we are.
Inches. That's all. I'm standing between his knees.
I can feel his breath on my face. I can feel the heat coming off him. How his knee is inches from my hip.
His pupils are blown. Huge. Black pools with just a thin ring of dark iris around them. Not right. Not normal. Wider than they should be. His breathing is too fast. Shallow. Rapid. He's hyperventilating. Has been this whole time.
How did I not notice that?
And he's shaking. Fine tremors running through his whole body. I can feel them where my hands touch his. I can see them in his shoulders. In his jaw.
Not from cold. Not from pain. This is something else. Something primal. Something that sets off alarm bells in the back of my mind.
From panic. Pure. Unfiltered. Overwhelming.
"Max." I set down the gauze —my hands are shaking slightly too, I realize, from adrenaline, from concern, from something else I don't want to name— and look at him. "What happened tonight?"
"Nothing," his voice shakes. The word cracks in the middle. His breath hitches. His eyes are too bright.
"Bullshit. You don't destroy your hands over nothing." I step closer. Not quite touching but close. Close enough that he has to look up at me. Close enough that he can't escape.
His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle flex. Watch his throat work as he swallows. Watch his eyes dart toward the door then back to me. "Just drop it."
"I can't drop it when you're sitting in my kitchen bleeding—" My voice is rising. I force it back down. Calm. Be calm. He doesn't need anger right now.
"Exactly! It's your kitchen!" The words come out sharp. Desperate. Loud. Aggressive. His chest heaving. His hands clenching despite the pain it must cause. "It's your house. It's not—I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere. And now—"
He stops. Abrupt. Like he's said too much. Like he's revealed something he didn't mean to. Clamps his mouth shut. His lips press into a thin line. His jaw locks. His whole face closes off.
"Now what?" I lean in. Not aggressive. Concerned. Trying to see past the walls. Trying to understand.
He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final. No.
His breathing is getting worse. Faster. Each inhale shorter than the last. Each exhale trembling. His chest is heaving like he's run a marathon. Like he's drowning. Sliding into a full panic attack. I've seen this before. I know where this goes if I don't intervene.
I've seen them before. Too many times. Zero after jobs that go wrong. Bane after Mom died. Even me, once, when I was younger and things got too heavy. I know the signs. I know the progression. I know how bad it can get.
But Max is—worse than either of them. Worse than I've seen. Spiraling so fast I'm worried he's going to pass out. Or worse.
He's spiraling. Free-falling. Coming apart. And I'm the only one here to catch him.
"Hey." I step closer. Right into his space. Close enough that I'm all he can see. Right into his space. Between his knees. My thighs against the marble. My body caging his. Protective. Grounding. Inescapable. "Look at me."
He doesn't. His eyes are unfocused. Staring past me. At something. At nothing. At everything.
"Max. Look at me." Firm. Command. Alpha voice. The one that compels obedience not through threat but through certainty.
His eyes snap to mine. Wild. Glazed. Terrified. Like a trapped animal. Like someone who's already decided they're going to die. Unfocused.
"Breathe," I say firmly. Not a request. An order. A lifeline. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. With me."
I demonstrate. Exaggerated. Obvious. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Slow. Steady.
He tries to follow. His breath stutters. Catches. Fails. Fails. His breath hitches. A sob tries to escape. He chokes it back. Tries again.
"Again," I say. Patient. Steady. Like I have all night. Like I'll stand here and breathe with him for hours if that's what it takes. "In. Hold it. Out."
He's still shaking. Violently now. His whole body trembling. I can see it. Feel it. His knee knocking against my hip.
I reach up. Slow. Telegraph the movement. Let him see it coming. Cup his face with both hands. My palms against his cheeks. My fingers sliding into his hair. Force him to focus on me and nothing else. On my eyes. On my voice. On the steady rhythm of my breathing. On something other than the panic.
I can feel his pulse hammering under my palms. Hummingbird fast. Dangerous. Way too fast. His heart is going to give out if he doesn't calm down.
"Breathe with me," I say again. Quieter. Gentler. My thumbs stroke across his cheekbones. Soothing. The way you gentle a horse. The way you calm something wild. "Come on, Max. You can do this."
In. I breathe in. Audible. Obvious. Watch me. Follow me.
Hold. Count it. One. Two. Three. Four.
Out. Slow. Controlled. Let it go.
His breathing slows. Just slightly. Just a fraction. But it's something. It's progress. Just slightly.
In. Again. We'll do this all night if we have to.
Hold. His eyes lock on mine. Really lock. Really see me.
Out. His chest expands less frantically. His breath is less ragged.
His eyes are locked on mine. Enormous. Dark. Endless. I can see myself reflected in them. I can see his fear.
The shaking eases. Slowly. Gradually. The tremors lessen. The violent shivering calms to fine trembling. His muscles unlock.
His breath evens out. In. Out. In. Out. Steady. Closer to normal. Closer to safe.
We're so close I can feel the warmth of his exhale against my jaw. His breath on my skin. Soft. Intimate. Wrong. Not wrong. Something else.
And then—
Something shifts. The moment changes. The air changes. Everything changes.
I don't know what it is. Can't name it. Can't explain it.
But I feel it. Deep. Visceral. Undeniable.
A look. A moment. The way his pupils contract just slightly.
Focusing. Sharpening. Seeing me. Really seeing me.
The way his lips part. Soft. Pink. Wet where he licks them. Inviting. Not inviting. Fuck.
Something. Indefinable. Magnetic. Dangerous. Pull. Like gravity. Like falling. Like being pulled under.
My heart does this stupid flutter in my chest. Skips a beat. Stutters. Restarts wrong. Fast. Too fast. This skip that I've never felt before. Never. Not with anyone. Not with any of the men I've been with. Not with anyone.
I'm nearly thirty years old. I've been with more men than I can count. Dozens. More than dozens. Men of all types. All sizes. All personalities. I know attraction. I know chemistry. I know lust.
This isn't that. This is different. This is more. This is dangerous.
This is—
Different. Intense. Consuming. Wrong. So wrong.
More. Than it should be. Than it can be. Than I can allow it to be.
Dangerous. To me. To him. To everyone. To everything.
I drop my hands like I've been burned. Jerk back. Put space between us. Air. Distance. Sanity.
Step back. One step. Two. My back hits the counter. Not far enough. Not nearly far enough.
Max blinks. The moment shattered. Broken. Gone. His eyes clear. Confusion replaces whatever was there before. The moment shatters.
"You're okay," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Raw. Wrecked. Betraying everything I'm trying to hide. "Your hands are bandaged. Get some sleep." Leave. Go. Before I do something I can't take back. Before I say something that changes everything. Before—
He stares at me for a second longer. His eyes searching mine. Looking for something. Finding something. I don't know what. I don't want to know.
Then he slides off the counter, his movements careful, his wrapped hands held against his chest. Protective. Wounded. Beautiful. Fuck. No. Not beautiful. Can't think that. Can't—
"Leave me alone," he says quietly. The words are soft but firm. A boundary. A wall. A rejection I should be grateful for.
He walks past me. So close. Too close. Out of the kitchen. Up the stairs. His footsteps quiet. Fading. Leaving me alone with my thoughts. With what just happened. With the realization that I'm completely fucked.
I stand there in the middle of the kitchen, my hands braced on the counter, my head hanging, my breath coming too fast, heart still racing, pounding against my ribs, threatening to break through, hands still tingling from where I touched his face.
Burning. Like the memory is seared into my skin.
Like I can still feel his heat. His softness. His pulse.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened? What did I just feel? What am I still feeling? What—
I press my palms against the counter and take a breath. Deep. Shaky. Not enough. Never enough.
This is—unacceptable. Impossible. Wrong. He's my stepbrother. He's twenty years old. He's Margot's son. He's off-limits in every way that matters and some ways I didn't even know existed. This can't happen. This isn't happening. This didn't happen.
No. I'm shutting this down. Right now. This moment. This feeling. This—whatever this is. It ends here. It has to.
But my heart is still fluttering. Still racing. Still betraying me. Still feeling things I don't want to feel. Can't afford to feel. Refuse to feel.
And I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me. Those eyes. That mouth. That moment when something shifted and the world tilted and everything made sense and no sense at all.
Fuck.