Page 97 of Bound By Fury

“You’re hurt, there’s potentially a maniac on the loose…” He shrugs. “Just let me check your wounds and get you cleaned up at the very least.”

His profile is tense, plum staining the pale skin beneath his eyes.

When the elevator dings, Malachi sticks out his hand to hold the doors open.

I don’t move.

“Let’s go,” he grunts, and truthfully, I don’t have the energy to argue.

I step into the hall, and he follows, his hand resting on my lower back, guiding me forward.

I don’t know what compels me to put one foot in front of the other until we are both standing inside his room, but I blink, and suddenly there we are.

It’s so late, the sky long past inky black. A single, yellow-toned lamp casts the room in sepia tones.

The room smells so intensely of petrichor and star anise that I can’t stop myself from taking extra deep breaths. From trying to coat all my insides with his essence. A blush creeps across my cheeks simply from being smothered by him.

I take it all in. The navy-blue comforter tucked neatly around his bed, pin-striped sheets folded over and wrinkle free. His desk isn’t a cluttered mess like mine. There’s a stack of textbooks in one corner, a calendar in the other, and a small jar filled with pens and pencils. LED lights border the top of the walls, tucked just below the ceiling.

There are no clothes scattered across the floor. No pictures on the wall, save for one of him and Lexie, and there are no novels crammed onto the shelf above his dresser.

No novels? I spin, double-, triple-checking, but my eyes do not deceive me.

However broken I thought this boy was, he’s worse.

“Where are your books?” I blurt, too alarmed to hold it in.

“My… books?”

“You know, the dragons and the medieval knights and whatever—your books! Where are they?”

He sighs. “Please just have a seat, Harper. On the bed would probably be easiest.”

He doesn’t seem any more comfortable than I am, so even though I want to protest—I want to force him to explain himself—I nod. The mattresses are the same in every room, but for some reason his feels softer beneath me than my own. Maybe after everything that’s happened tonight, I’d be willing to sleep anywhere. Willing to take comfort in any form. Anything to erase the last few hours for any amount of time.

Even if it comes from someone who hates me.

The mattress sags as he sits beside me. His fingers drift hesitantly toward my arm where blood stains the fabric of my cardigan. I lift my chin, eyes falling closed as he slowly pulls the sleeve up until my skin is exposed.

He hisses, and I flinch, sneaking a peek at his face.

Barely contained fury.

I can’t tell if it’s directed at me or the person who hurt me.

Or both.

The gash on my arm is raw and split in a clean line that cuts halfway down the length between my elbow and wrist. It’s deep, but not enough for stitches, and tapered as if the person was nervous at first, and the blade caught in their hesitation.

“Where else?” His gaze roams over me, greedy, assessing, vicious. His voice is a siren call to all the parts of me I try to hide.

I turn my back to him, sliding the cardigan down my shoulders. He takes it and drops it onto the floor. “I think I got pretty scraped up when I fell. And when…” I’m trembling. My voice feels way too loud in such a small space. I can’t make my mouth say it.

Carefully, slowly, he peels the back of my black shirt up, his fingers never touching my skin. The fabric sticks over a spot where blood has begun to dry, and I jerk away from the pain.

“Ah, sorry,” he mumbles, gently lifting my arms until my top is on the floor beside us too.

He leaves the bed and heads toward the sink. “Stay there,” he instructs. “It’s not great, but it could be worse.”