“Youneed to go inside, Clare.” He sat up with a groan. “That thing might come back.”
“Something had you in its grip, but I didn’t see what it was, it was shadowy.”
“Yep,” he grunted. “But it sure felt fucking real.”
She helped him up, and he staggered, putting out a bloodied hand in protest. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
“You don’t look it.”
He stood swaying in front of her, blood all over his face, in his beard. Already his left eye was half closed and swelling. “Go inside. Lock the door. I’ll get my sorry ass out of here.”
Clare set her jaw. “You will do no such thing. You are coming inside. I’m going to clean you up.”
He made to step away, stumbled again, and this time she reached out and steadied him.
“Don’t argue with me,” she all but snapped. And as if her taking charge was exactly what he needed, he muttered thickly, “Okay.”
Hallelujah!
She led him, relishing how he leaned into her touch, but when she tried to help him up the stairs, he growled “I can walk.”
“Fine,” she muttered, following him and grimacing at the bloody handprint he left on the paintwork.
Stupid, stubborn vampire.
When they made it into her little kitchen, she ordered him to sit and hurried to get a bowl of warm water. She added antiseptic lotion, then crouched down next to him. “Head up,” she demanded.
He leveled his face to hers and she saw not only the deep scratches, but also the raw emotion in his eyes. She tried to ignore the violent rap of her heart against her ribs at his closeness.
“So, what happened?”
“Some thug attacked me.”
“Ok-aay. Right.” She narrowed her eyes. “What were you doing outside my apartment at this time of night?”
“Walking home.”
“So it was totally coincidental that you got beaten up right outside.”
“I did not get beaten up, I gave as good as I got,” he growled, and she had to hide a smile. Gods, how he hated being vulnerable.
“Ouch.” He recoiled as she dabbed a bit hard.
“Sorry.” She gentled her touch. “You’re going to look a mess tomorrow. What will you tell Saul?”
“That I went to a bar, drank too much whiskey and got into a brawl.”
“Did you?”
“Drink too much whiskey? Yes.”
“Why?”
“To stop myself thinking.”
“What about?”
He let out a frustrated growl. “Fuck it Clare, stop digging. You’re hurting me enough with that fucking cloth as it is.”
