Page 86 of Arrow

He sighed loudly, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder.

I let out an indignant yelp as the world flipped upside down, blood rushing to my head as he carried me like a sack of flour. His shoulder dug into my stomach, and I winced.

“Put me down, you fucking caveman!” I pounded my fists against his back, but he only tightened his grip on my thighs. “Put me down before I bite you.”

“Go ahead,” he challenged. “I’ll bite back harder.”

My body went limp, as I decided to conserve my energy. Blood rushed to my head as the staircase swept past in a blur, but Arrow’s gait never faltered, each step steady and sure. When we reached my room, he kicked the door open and finally set me down on the edge of the bed.

I scrambled backward immediately, putting distance between us. My leg throbbed, and dried blood crackled on my skin.

“You need a shower,” he said, his eyes tracking the mess of me. “And that leg needs proper cleaning.”

“I can take care of myself,” I snapped, though we both knew it wasn’t true. Not tonight.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and the sound of water running filled the space between us. He returned with a first aid kit and a damp cloth, before dropping to his knees in front me. His face was impassive as he reached for my injured leg.

“Don’t touch me,” I warned, but there was no heat behind it.

Ignoring my protest entirely, he took my ankle in his hand. His touch was firm but impersonal, and I was too exhausted to fight him.

“This needs stitches,” he said flatly.

“Just clean it,” I muttered. “I’ve had worse.”

A brief flicker of his eyes to mine. “I’m aware.”

His hands worked the wound, gently wiping away dried blood. I winced when he applied antiseptic, the sting making me suck in a sharp breath between my teeth.

“Hold still,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Easy for you to say,” I hissed. “You’re not the one being tortured.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “If you think this is torture, you have a very sheltered definition of the word.”

His dark head bent low over my leg, and something twisted in my chest. There was something strangely intimate about this moment. More intimate than the kiss we’d shared at the altar. This was care without pretense, without the veneer of dominance or submission. Just one monster tending to another.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

Arrow didn’t look up. “Because infection is a stupid way to die.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His hands went still on my leg. “I know what you meant.”

When he didn’t elaborate, I sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “You seem to keep saving me from myself. It’s getting old.”

He finished cleaning my wound, and when he was done, he sat back on his heels and stared at me without responding.

So, of course, I continued poking at him. “Just because you cleaned my cut doesn’t mean I’ll willingly walk down the aisle to you.”

“You had your freedom, you made your statement; now, we do it my way.” He looked at me like he was going to say something that might change things between us, but then seemed to think better of it. “Are you going to run again tomorrow?”

“You can count on it.” My pride refused to surrender.

He chuckled, and I hated him—hated myself—for how the game never tired. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, letting his hand go slack and backing away. “But for now, sleep.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet click that was more final than any shout.