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“Because that makes me feel so much better.” I settled against the wall, studying the blood splattered on his neck, waiting for him to tell me what had happened after he’d sent me home. He kept washing long after his hands were clean, until I finally leaned over and shut off the faucet.
He still didn’t look up as he braced his hands on either side of the sink. I stepped closer like I was approaching a wild animal. A copper tang hung from him, from the wet stains on his clothes. Not his blood. Theirs. I shouldn’t feel satisfied, not when he’d done something terrible, but I nearly stumbled with relief. It should be proof of everything I’d once believed. That he was a monster. That I was nothing like him. Neither was true. And instead of that making me want to run, it made me want to reach out.
So I did.
His back stiffened as my hand found his shoulder, every muscle tensing. He drew a shuddering breath that made me take another step, bringing my body near enough to feel the heat of his own. One more step was all it would take to close the distance, to press myself against him, to soothe the jagged energy rolling off him and calm my own wicked heart.
“Are you okay?” I murmured, not daring to take that final step.
His laugh was as bitter as nightshade. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.” He shook my hand off his shoulder and reached for a towel.
I didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Lach raised his head, his eyes finding mine in the mirror. A corner of his mouth lifted into something tortured. “Go on. Ask me.”
I bit my lower lip and didn’t say anything.
His nostrils flared, and he spun around. His hands shot out, bracing against the wall behind me as he leered over me. “Ask me,” he demanded again. “Ask me what I did to the people who touched you.”
I swallowed, tears lining my eyes as I faced him, faced what he truly was, faced a part of myself I didn’t want to believe existed. I could no longer ignore any of it. Not just what he’d done but how I felt about it.
Pleased. More than that—avenged.
“Ask me!” he roared.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. “What did you do?”
He exhaled and fell back a step, his hands dropping to his sides. A muscle worked in his jaw while he looked me in the eyes. “What I’ve always done.” He sounded so tired. “Bad things. Very bad things done extremely well.”
His cold glare challenged me to question him further, seemed to demand it. He loomed over me, flooding my every sense with him. His massive body, the heat of his skin, his cedar scent mixing with the tang of blood beckoned me. Everything about him called to me from a place I’d long ago buried.
His eyes skimmed lower, lingering on the laceration on my collarbone before he turned away with disgust. Did it look that bad? He reached into his pocket and produced a blood apple. “This will help.”
I blinked as he held it out to me, but I took it.
“They’re grown with vampire venom. It will speed up healing.”
I managed a nod but set it to the side. He had saved me, but his expression told me that wasn’t enough to silence the guilt screaming inside me. It was written all over his face.
So, I reached around him for the hand towel. He froze as I lifted it to his cheek and gently wiped the blood there. He watched me warily as I cleaned his skin, not shrinking away from who he was but welcoming the shadows instead. When I paused to search for any missed blood, Lachlan caught my wrist and pulled me closer. His breath was hot on my face. The whisper of bourbon lingering on it told me he cared more than he let on. Had he been drinking before or after… I didn’t ask him.
“What are you doing?” Under the gravelly surface of his words, there was a soft edge of curiosity. Bewilderment.
I met his searching eyes, my heart beginning to pound. “Taking care of you.”
“You don’t have to do that.” His thumb stroked across the back of my wrist, igniting something low in my belly.
“Someone has to,” I said softly as I spotted more blood. He didn’t look away from me as I wiped it off, and I didn’t shy away from his stare. Finally satisfied, I dropped the bloody towel on the floor and risked looking into his eyes. “Your shirt.”
He straightened ever so slightly. He hooked his thumbs under the straps of his holster and shucked his weapons free. Dropping the holster on the towel, he raised his arms to the side and waited. Not looking away once. My throat slid as my fingers fumbled to unbutton his collar. I tried not to look at the blood. I worked my way down, his gaze boring into mine, stripping me bare as I undressed him. When I reached the final button, I slid my fingers up the seams of his undone shirt to his broad shoulders. I paused to trace a scar, the mottled and knotted skin the only blemish on his otherwise perfect torso. A nearby tattoo fled at the touch, as if his body didn’t like to remember what had happened. It must have been horrible if it had left a mark.
He glanced down at where my fingertip brushed the old wound. “As a smartass once said, even immortals bleed—and iron scars.”
I didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to consider that he could suffer like he’d made those redcaps suffer tonight. He didn’t stop me as I shifted my hands under the fabric of his shirt instead, pushing it off his shoulders until it fell loosely around his back. He only watched.
I flushed at the sight of his bare chest, the golden skin and black ink. I wanted to run my fingertips over the dips and peaks of his muscles. His tattoos stilled, as if they were as mesmerized as he was. Instead, I tugged his rolled sleeves free one at a time and tossed the ruined shirt on top of the bloody towel and guns. He did not move as I traced a whorl of ink on his shoulder.
“They’re peaceful,” I whispered. How could his mind be quiet at a moment like this? I wanted to ask him, but my finger continued to follow the lines and swirls of that strange language. When I finally looked up, his eyes were bright, the intensity piercing through me. Every rational thought fled my brain. “Kiss me, Lach.”