Page 117 of Dirty Hit
Something stupid and warm flares in my chest, and I tamp it down with practiced self-loathing. “Yeah, I got that part.”
His breathing has gone a little shallower; I shift, reaching for the hem of his hoodie. “I need to see your ribs.”
“Buy me dinner first,” he mumbles.
“I will smother you with this pillow,” I warn, but my voice comes out gentle. “Arms up.”
He winces, but complies, lifting his arms enough for me to pull the hoodie over his head. The T-shirt underneath is damp and clinging, and there are bruises already blooming along his side—angry purples and reds that make my stomach twist. One long, ugly scrape slices along his ribs, shallow but messy.
“Jesus,” I whisper, pressing my fingers lightly around the area, feeling for anything that gives. “Does this hurt?”
“Everything hurts, Brendon,” he says. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Smartass.” I press a little more firmly in one spot, and he sucks in a quick breath. “Okay, that’s probably a bruised rib. Maybe two. Nothing I can do about those, so you’ll just have to not be an idiot and take it easy.”
“Yes, doctor,” he says faintly. “Tell me more about how I shouldn’t be an idiot.”
I clean the scrape as gently as I can, smear antibiotic ointment on it, then tape gauze over it, too. By the time I’m done, he’s lying down on the couch, sweat beading on his forehead again. His eyes are closed again, lashes dark against skin that looks too pale under the harsh light.
“Hey,” I say softly, tapping his cheek. “No sleeping yet. Head injury, remember? I need you awake a little longer.”
He makes a noncommittal noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
“Dom.” I lean in. “Stay with me.”
His eyes crack open, unfocused, but he looks at me as if he’s seeing something behind my face that I can’t.
“I didn’t want this,” he murmurs suddenly.
My heart stutters. “Want what?”
“You,” he says, and the word is raw, stripped of his usual swagger. “Didn’t want to feel this way about you. It’s fucking dangerous.”
My throat tightens. “Okay,” I say carefully. “We’re just going to unpack that later, yeah? When you’re not bleeding on my couch.”
He ignores that as his head lolls slightly to the side, gaze drifting somewhere over my shoulder like he’s watching ghosts.
“Caring about people gets them killed,” he adds, voice dropping. “Tracking mark. Weak point. She taught me that. Again and again.”
“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.
His mouth curls, half snarl, half heartbreak. “My dear mama,” he slurs. “Fucked-up goddess of the slaughterhouse. She made me like this. Took her pretty boy and carved all the softness out until there was nothing left but… this.” His free hand flexes weakly. “Said love is a liability. Said you don’t hold people, you hold knives. Knives don’t leave.”
I go very still.
We’ve danced around his childhood before—little pieces, tossed out in sardonic comments, glimpses of something much uglier under the tattoos and swagger. This is the closest he has ever come to saying her name and mine in the same breath.
“I didn’t want you to be leverage,” he mumbles, eyes slipping closed again. “Didn’t want her to see you. Didn’t want her to smell you on me, so I… tried to push you away. She’ll hurt you if she knows. She always hurts the soft things I reach for, and you’re so fucking soft, Brendon.”
The word should make me bristle, but it doesn’t. Not now. “You think you’re protecting me by pushing me away?”
He huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “Trying,” he says. “Failing. Look at me. Bleeding on your furniture. Came here anyway. Fuck.”
“Why, though?” I say. “Why come here after ignoring me all night?”
He cracks one eye open again, gaze heavy. “Where else would I go?” he murmurs. “Always end up at your door now. Like a stray.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “You’re a six-four serial killer and a first-round draft pick,” I say. “You’re nobody’s stray.”
