Chapter 17 The Wound
THE WOUND
EMMA
I open the door to find Kai filling the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His leather jacket is torn at the shoulder, blood on his shirt.
“Hey.” His voice is rough, tired. He tries to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Get in here.” I move aside, holding the door wider.
He moves slowly, favoring his left side. I reach for his jacket, ease it off his shoulders. He clenches his jaw but doesn't make a sound. The leather falls away, revealing blood soaking through his shirt at the forearm.
“Sit down.” I point to the couch. “Now.”
He doesn't argue. He lowers himself onto my secondhand sofa, wincing as his shoulder hits the cushion.
Blood on his shirt, on his hands, smeared across his knuckles. Some dried, some still dark and wet. My stomach lurches, but I shove the panic down. Panic doesn't help anyone. I learned that a long time ago.
“Where's your first aid kit?” he asks, like he's going to patch himself up.
“Stay there.” I'm already heading to the bathroom. “Don't move.”
My first aid kit is pathetic. A few bandages, some antiseptic wipes, a half-empty tube of Neosporin. I grab a towel and the ice pack from my freezer.
When I come back, Kai's leaning his head against the cushion, eyes closed. The sharp line of his jaw, the stubble coming in, the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. He looks younger like this. Vulnerable.
“I can feel you staring.”
I jump. “I wasn't staring. I was assessing.”
One eye opens, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Assessing what?”
“The damage.”
I set everything on the coffee table, kneel in front of him. His knuckles are raw and swollen. The cut on his forearm still seeping through a makeshift bandage, a jagged line running from wrist to elbow.
“Kai...”
“Bar fight,” he says, and I can tell it's not the whole truth. “Some guys didn't like my face.”
“You said you were handling the fire situation. If you can't tell me, fine. Don't bullshit me.”
He sits straighter. “You're right. I'm sorry. Technically, the fight happened in a bar of sorts.” He holds my gaze. “We found the men who started the fire.”
My hands still on the bandage. “You found them?”
“My team tracked them down. We had a conversation.”
The blood on his shirt. His raw knuckles. The evasion in his eyes. I'm not naive. I know what kind of conversation leaves someone looking like this.
“Did they tell you who hired them?”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. Maybe he expected me to flinch.
“They gave us a name. A fixer who works for people who don't want to get their hands dirty.”
“And now?”
“Now we follow the trail.”
I process this. The man on my couch tracked down criminals and beat information out of them. He's watching me, waiting to see how I react. Testing me, maybe.
“Good,” I say quietly. “I hope you find whoever's behind it.”
He exhales, and something in his posture unlocks.
“This cut needs to be cleaned properly. Can you...” I gesture at his shirt. “I need to see your shoulder.”
He reaches for the top button. I should look away. I know I should. I don't.
Kai works his way down, one button at a time.
I've seen shirtless men before. Nothing prepared me for this.
The broad expanse of his chest, the defined ridges of his abs, a tattoo I didn't know he had.
A stylized compass spreading across his pectoral and curling toward his collarbone, cardinal points in bold black lines, the design intricate and bold.
He's all golden skin and hard muscle. My apartment feels ten degrees warmer.
“Emma?”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I'm looking at your injuries.”
“My injuries are on my arm and shoulder.” His voice is low, amused despite everything. “You're looking at my chest.”
“I am not.” I absolutely am. “Hold still.”
I grab the antiseptic wipes, focus on his forearm, dabbing at the cut with more concentration than necessary. He hisses when the antiseptic hits, good hand gripping the couch cushion.
“Sorry.” I blow on it gently, the way my mom used to do when I scraped my knees. “Almost done.”
I'm kneeling between his legs, bare skin under my hands, close enough to smell leather and sweat and something underneath that's just him. This isn't how I imagined tonight going. I had a book picked out. Tea steeping. Plans to pretend the world didn't exist.
Instead, I'm patching up a man who showed up at my door bleeding after interrogating arsonists.
“You're good at this,” Kai says quietly.
I snort. “I'm really not. Making this up as I go.”
“I like you taking care of me.”
“Do you often need to be taken care of?”
“I could get used to it.” His voice softens. “Would that be so bad?”
He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek. The touch is tender, careful. Like he knows I might bolt.
I lean into it. Just for a moment.
Then I pull away. “I need to get some gel for this bruise.”
I'm up and moving toward the bathroom before he can respond, pulse racing. A flimsy excuse, and we both know it.
When I come back with the arnica gel, he's watching me with an expression I can't read.
I kneel in front of him again, focus on uncapping the gel.
“Emma.” His voice is careful. “I don't want to push, but... did something happen? Did someone hurt you?”
My hands still. No one's ever asked me that directly. Not even Zoe, who knows most of it. People tiptoe around it, wait for me to bring it up. Kai just asks.
When I look up, his jaw is tight.
“You went radio silent for a week after I opened up to you.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Please don't play with me. If you're just curious, we can talk about other things.”
He grimaces.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I handled that poorly.
I didn't know what to do or say, and instead of reaching out, I waited for you to contact me.
I didn't know you as well then as I do now.” He pauses, eyes searching mine.
“I want to know everything about you, Emma.
Your past. And I want to make your future better. If you'll let me.”
I focus on spreading the gel across his bruised shoulder. Easier than looking at him.
“I don't talk about this,” I say quietly.
“You don't have to.”
The silence stretches. My hands keep moving, smoothing the gel into his skin.
“He didn't hurt me physically,” I finally say. “Not in the way you're probably thinking.”
Kai stays quiet. Waiting.
“The psychological pressure was relentless. Every day, he found new ways to make me feel like nothing. Stupid. Ugly. Worthless.” I swallow. “He'd say it like he was joking. Said it so often I started to believe it.”
My hands slow on his shoulder.
“He'd grab me too hard sometimes. Leave bruises on my arms and act like I was being dramatic when I flinched. And the worst part?” My voice cracks.
“I'm still not sure if I actually wanted him or if I just let him do what he wanted because the alternative was too scary. He made me so small that leaving felt impossible.”
I risk a glance at Kaiden. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark.
“I got out eventually,” I add quickly. “I'm okay now. Mostly.”
I move to bandage his arm, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
He reaches out and envelops my hands with his.
“You show up at a fire scene and buy coffee for strangers,” he says quietly.
“You talk to teenagers that cops ignored and get them to trust you in twenty minutes. You cry in front of paintings because beauty moves you. You called me out when I disappeared instead of letting me get away with it.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “You wear your heart where everyone can see it, and it's not a performance.
It's just who you are. You're the realest person I've ever met, Emma. And you make me want to be a better man.”
Tears prick at my eyes.
“Emma, look at me. Please.”
I lift my head.
“You always have a choice with me,” he says. “Always. At any time. If something doesn't feel right, you tell me, and we stop. No matter what.” His grip on my hands tightens gently. “I'm proud of you for finding the strength to leave him. And I swear to you, I will never let him hurt you again.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You can't be with me twenty-four seven, Kai.”
“Don't worry about that.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.” His eyes hold mine. “If it was up to me, I'd spend every day with you. Learning what you need. What makes you laugh. What makes you come alive.”
I shake my head. “You'll get tired of me.”
“Try me, Emma.”
“Do you want some tea?” The words come out rushed. “I don't have alcohol. I don't keep it around. I have tea. Chamomile, or this ginger blend that's supposed to be good for everything, according to the box.”
Kaiden watches me ramble. “Tea sounds good.”
I escape to the kitchen, which isn't really an escape since it's the other side of the same room. Filling the kettle. Finding mugs. Pretending I'm not hyperaware of the half-naked man on my couch.
From here, I can see straight through to my bedroom. The door's open. Unmade bed, clothes thrown over the chair, stack of books on my nightstand. My whole messy, imperfect life on display.
I don't close the door. If Kai wants to be part of my life, he can see who I am.
“Your place is nice,” he says.
I look at the boxes I still haven't unpacked, the mismatched furniture, the prints I hung to brighten the space. “It's small.”
“It feels like you.”
He gets up, walks to the kitchenette table, picks up a book I left there, flips through a few pages. He looks at ease. Like he belongs here.
Our eyes meet. I turn away, cheeks burning. Without a word, he grabs his shirt from the couch, slips it on, leaves it unbuttoned. Settles back into the cushions, protecting his shoulder.
The kettle whistles. I pour two cups and let the bags steep while I gather my courage.
When I bring the mugs over, his eyes track my movement. I hand him one, settle onto the opposite end of the couch, tuck my feet under me.