Beneath my grip, he continued to quake with aftershocks of anxiety and adrenaline.
“Whose blood was that?”
No way in hell would I fill his head with all the deranged shit I got up to in that warehouse. I was damn near certain my boy had reached his life maximum of trauma.
Guilt slammed into me.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Whose blood was it?”
Chapter law banned me from offering him certain details, but I could give him a name. “Freddy.”
“Who the hell isFreddy?”
The way he said his name made me think he was jealous, and fuck me to hell, but the thought made my chest expand.
“Freddy was… a problem.”
“A problem?” Marcos bristled and shoved away from me. Eyes narrow, he rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest and struggled to catch his breath. “Is this a… mob thing? Were you out… killing people or something?”
I imagined torture fell into the category ofor something.
The expression he wore was a new one, face slack, and eyes closed. He gripped the back of his neck and hung his head, blowing rough breaths toward the floor. Toes curling in badly laced sneakers, his knees bent like he was planning to run.
I wouldn’t fucking blame him… but I couldn’t let him go.
Not now. Not ever.
“It hasn't been ten days,” he said right before he shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes.
What left him then was an exhale so weighted I wondered how the hell it fit inside his lungs. Feeble fingers left faint streaks of blood across his cheeks when he dragged them down his face. Head rolling on his neck, he looked up at me. Through strands of his hair, I saw his tired eyes. They pleaded for help but were barred with strength.
“You’re fine, aren’t you?” I saw the veins in his arms flex when he placed his hands on the back of his neck and squeezed. “Well, notfine,fine. You were still shot. Down an organ and a puddle of blood, but you’re… okay.”
My brows cinched in confusion. “Marcos…”
“I didn’t come here for you. Not really. I came for me… because when I laid down in my bed tonight, I lost my shit. Supremely. But that’s… not your problem. It’s mine. I projected my bullshit onto you, and I’m sorry. I’m not yours to fix. I should go to a therapist, but those cost a lot of money.”
One step, and he was stumbling over his sweatshirt, staring down at it with an arched eyebrow as though he couldn’t remember when he dropped it. Snatching it off the floor, he held it to his chest and took off toward the front door.
Nope.
My hand shot outward and gripped the back of his shirt. Fingers wound into the fabric, I yanked him so hard, the sound of cotton stretching sliced through the room.
I lifted him then, bringing us eye to eye while his feet swung helplessly above the ground.
“You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“Hush.”
He growled the whole time I carried him across the room as if the noise did anything but make my cock hard.
The table swayed and clunked when I dropped him on the edge. “Wrap your legs around my waist so you don’t fall.”
Onedenim-clad leg curved itself around the rigid edge of my waist.
“Stubborn,” I mumbled, but I left it alone.