Chapter 14
Blood
“You’re awake.”
There’s no surprise in his tone, no guilt. He’s not hiding from me. He’s not ashamed. He’s not scared of the truth. But I am.
Is that his blood? Or someone else’s?
Theo steps into the kitchen, and I follow his every move. He’s acting so casual. So nonchalant. Is he waiting for me to ask? Or is he hoping I’ll simply let this slip? As he turns on the faucet, the overhead lights illuminate his face, and that’s when I know I can’t stay silent.
“Oh my God.” I struggle climbing off the couch. My ankle isn’t as swollen anymore, but it hurts. I can’t imagine it hurts as much as Theo’s right eye, though. There’s a half-inch gash below his brow, dried blood smeared around the perimeter. “What happened?”
“It’s fine, Safia. You don’t need to—”
But it’s too late. I hobble toward him, limping as I approach the kitchen. His jaw sets, gaze flickering down to the T-shirt I’m wearing. The hem flows against my upper thighs. I round the island, the color draining from my face as I examine the wound closer.
“That’s deep, Theo. You need to go to the hospital.”
“I said I’m fine.” He wrings his hand under the sink, the clear water turning pink as he scrubs off the evidence. But evidence of what? “It’s just a scratch.”
I blink. “Just a scratch? You need a doctor, Theo. That won’t heal on its own.”
He refuses to look at me. “Go sit down. You need to rest your ankle.”
I scoff. “And you need stitches.”
Theo turns the faucet off and dries his hands on a nearby rag. He grips the edge of the kitchen counter, his head hung low. His shoulders and ribs expand as he takes calculated, deep breaths.
“Go to sleep, Safia. That’s an order.”
I tilt my head. “Excuse me? That’s an order? You are not my boss, Theodore. Not at work and certainly not in here.”
He slowly lifts his head up, eyes hooded, threatening.
“Then what am I, Safia?” he rasps. “Define me.”
I swallow, pulse quickening.
You’re a man I’d let destroy my soul.
“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are. Where the hell were you? What did you do?”
The corner of his lip curls up. “I took a walk. Had a lot on my mind, you know?”
I grit my teeth. “Let me guess, you bumped into a fist on the way home?”
“Something like that.” He pauses for a brief moment, glancing down at my ankle. “You ever take Home Ec, doc?”
I frown. “What?”
He ducks around me toward the utility closet. I turn around as he removes a red first aid kit from the top shelf. He closes the door too fast for me to register all the contents of the closet, but I see a rope and a box of professional-grade latex gloves. A big box. He nods toward the living room.
“I hope you have a steady hand, doctor.”
My mouth gapes open. “You want me to—” I shake my head vehemently. “No way. You need a real doctor. A medical doctor. I am in no way qualified to—”
His words hit me like a jolt of electricity, like the life-saving charge of a defibrillator. “I trust you, Safia.” He waits for a response, but I’m stunned into silence. He gives me a lopsided smile. “What? Are you scared you’ll scar me? Turn me into a monster?”
No. I’m scared you’ll scar me.
“Fine,” I say, more to myself than to him. “I’ll do it.”
I try to move forward, but my ankle throbs in protest. Theo is at my side in an instant, his arm snaking around my waist to support my weight. I hold my breath as I feel his warmth, his strength.
This might be a good opportunity to get him to talk. To open up. He trusts me with a needle millimeters away from his eyes. If he trusts me physically, perhaps he’ll crack open emotionally.
I look up at him, adding, “If I do this for you, I want the truth. I want to know what happened. I want to know where you went. Why you’re bleeding.”
His hold on me tightens, tension radiating from his body. My heart races, and I notice the way his gaze lowers, the way his chest rises and falls more rapidly. My T-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of my black lace panties.
His chest thunders like the deadly rumbling of an impending avalanche as he says, “You make it hard for a man to say no.”
A strange sense of pride swells inside me, and I’m shocked by the next words that come out of my mouth.
“I make a lot of things hard for a man.”
“Christ…” Theo’s eyes darken, his gaze locking onto my lips. “There’s something very sexy about a woman who’s so self-aware.”
I am aware. I’m aware that he makes me want to be bad. In every way conceivable. I want to say bad words. I want to do bad things. I want to break rules. Not just bend them but break them. Annihilate them. I want to cross each line, stomp out each boundary, test his limits.
Test my own.
“You think I’m sexy, Agent Kane?” I whisper, peering up at him through my lashes.
“Don’t start something you don’t intend on finishing, Doctor Hadid.” He cocks his head. “Especially when you’re incapable of running away.”
My cheeks flush, and I bite my lip, trying to rein in the chaotic thoughts that are holding me hostage.
Theo chuckles at my reaction. “That’s what I thought.” He nods to the couch. “Shall we?”
We should be sitting at the dining room table, but it’s covered in unpacked boxes. Before we reach the couch, I stumble, and a stack of boxes next to the table teeters precariously. I reach out to steady the stack, but it’s too late. The top box falls, crashing to the floor with a loud thud.
I wince as the box opens and the contents spill out. “Sorry.” I begin to bend down to pick up the items, but Theo stops me.
“Don’t, I got it,” he says, already dropping to the ground.
He quickly scoops up the picture frames and knickknacks that have spilled out, carefully stacking the box back on top of the others. But one photograph catches his attention. He holds it in his hand, staring at it as if lost in a memory.
I cringe at the sight of the cracked glass. “I’ll buy you another one. I’m sorry.”
Theo doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze remains fixed on the photo, an old, slightly faded image likely taken with a film camera.
There are four kids in the picture. They appear to be on the monkey bars at a playground.
There are red and orange leaves on the ground.
Two redheaded boys who look like twins stand back to back, fingers positioned like guns.
A blonde girl wearing glasses and overalls waves at the camera.
A dark-haired boy has his arm slung over the girl’s shoulder.
His smile is pure. It’s familiar. It’s how I used to smile as well. Carefree and unaware.
“Is that you?” I ask softly.
Theo nods, still staring at the photograph.
“You were a cute kid,” I muse, trying to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t react. They look so happy together. I wonder if I tried harder, if I wasn’t so difficult, if I could’ve made friends like that, too. “How old were you here?”
“I was twelve,” Theo mumbles, finally placing the photo back in the box.
He stacks it carefully on top of the others, then walks over to the couch.
There’s a heaviness in his steps, in the way he sits down, and I hesitate a second before joining him.
Theo hands me the first aid kit. “Here. Try not to sew my eyes together, ’kay? ”
“I’ll try,” I say with a small smile, unzipping the kit.
It’s not a standard first aid kit. It’s equipped with surgical sutures, the kind you’d only find in a hospital or in the back of a rig.
I haven’t used sutures since my first and only semester of medical school.
That was when I realized I was better with my mind than with my hands.
Don’t get me wrong, I was decent, but I needed to be perfect.
“Close your eyes.”
He’ll have to sit still for at least ten minutes, and that gives me a small window to ask questions. I can either get answers about where he was, why he’s wounded, or I can dig into that photo, his past.
Most people are shaped by their childhood, whether they believe it or not. While the present circumstances would result in instant answers, something tells me to journey back to where it all started. Where he started. Where he was born and molded.
“Did you go to school with those kids?” I ask as I sanitize the wound.
Theo winces slightly as I prepare the sutures. His throat ripples as he swallows.
“Sometimes.”
I frown, not understanding. “Sometimes?”
Theo hesitates, as if deciding how much to reveal. “We went to school together when we lived together,” he finally says, his voice tight. “Oftentimes, we were in different districts. Different districts, different schools.”
I put the pieces together. “You grew up in foster care.”
“I wouldn’t use the word care,” he says, flinching as I hold his head steady for the first stitch. “I grew up in the system. We all did.”
I swallow. “That must have been difficult. I’m glad you had friends to lean on. Children who grow up together in foster homes tend to build strong bonds.”
He doesn’t reply.
“May I ask what happened to your parents?”
He stiffens but surprisingly responds. “They died when I was ten. Overdose. I found them in the living room one morning.”
“That’s awful,” I whisper as I briefly pause suturing. I’m not an emotional woman. I’ve cried a total of five times in my life. But right now, my nose tingles. It’s not tears, but it’s the closest I’ve gotten in years. “No child should have to go through that.”
Theo sighs. “I was lucky to grow up in a safe home. My foster parents were good people. I can’t say the same for the other kids in that photo.”
I think back to our first car ride together. “Was Penny your foster mom?”
“You remembered.” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“It’s my job to remember,” I say, quickly adding, “not that I’m currently on the clock.” I pause, guilt creeping into my stomach. Cold. I’m so goddamn cold. Can he feel it? My inability to comfort? My inability to soothe? “Do you… Do you still keep in contact with them? With your friends?”
Theo’s lip twitches. “Owen and Liam, the twins, they got adopted by a family a year after that photo was taken. They moved abroad. Australia, I think. We don’t talk.”
“Oh,” I hum. “And the girl?”
“Jaime.” Theo’s shoulders sag, and I have to adjust my position on the couch to match his level. “She died.”
I pause, needle in hand.
“I’m sorry.”
It feels inadequate, like trying to patch a gaping wound with a single stitch, but it’s all I can offer.
Theo remains a mask of controlled indifference.
I can’t tell if he’s shut down to avoid the pain, or if he’s simply accepted it as an unchangeable part of his life.
The former seems more likely, given everything I’m slowly learning about him.
But I’m not about to push him, not when he’s just opened up a door that’s clearly been bolted shut for years.
I refocus on the task at hand, carefully threading the needle through his skin. He winces but doesn’t make a sound.
“How did she…?” I hesitate, unsure if I should even ask. It feels like prying, but I can’t stop myself. “How did Jaime die?”
Theo’s fist tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me to stop asking questions.
“She was mugged,” he says flatly, devoid of emotion. “Wrong place, wrong time. She didn’t survive.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
“It was a long time ago.”
I don’t push him further. Instead, I focus on the stitches, trying to keep my hands steady as he silently pleads for space, for a break.
So I give it to him, working quietly, the only sounds in the room the soft rustle of the first aid kit and the occasional hiss of breath from Theo as I close the wound.
When I’m finished, I sit back, my gaze drifting to his face. His eyes are closed, his expression unreadable.
What is he thinking right now? What memories are playing out behind those closed curtains?
“I’m done,” I say gently, not wanting to startle him. He opens his eyes, blinking as if coming back from some far-off place. “Do you want to see?”
“No,” he mutters, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Okay,” I manage, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I clear my throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness. “So… those other kids, Owen and Liam… have you ever thought about reaching out to them?”
Theo’s lips press into a thin line. “No.”
The finality in his tone leaves no room for further questions, but curiosity gnaws at me.
“Why not?”
“Because they have their own lives now,” he snaps. “They moved on. And so did I.”
It’s a dismissal, a clear signal that this line of questioning is over. “They’d probably be happy to hear from you, you grew up together, after all. I’m sure they still care about you.”
Theo huffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I guarantee you, Safia, those two could not give a shit about me.”
I bristle at his tone. “Did something happen between you?”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to gauge my sincerity. “Why do you care so much?”
The question catches me off guard, and I find myself fumbling for an answer.
“Because… because I want to know you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his gaze an indecipherable storm of potential destruction. Then, without warning, he leans in, closing the distance between us. The tip of his nose brushes against mine, and I savor the moment we breathe the same warm, thick air.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Safia,” he rasps, his tone rough and full of restraint. “You don’t want to know me. You don’t want to play these games with me.”
I breathe heavily. A game? He sees this as a game? “Why not?”
“Because.” He cups the underside of my jaw and drags the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip.
“If I start playing with you, Safia Hadid, I won’t ever stop.
” I shiver, overwhelmed by the heat burning inside me as he whispers along my skin, “And I don’t think you’re ready for that.
” He takes a deep breath, inhaling my scent.
“Goodnight, little lamb. I’ll see you in your dreams.”