ALCOHOL STEMS my apprehension as I shift on my feet outside Nick’s bedroom door. Laughter floats towards me from downstairs where Kate and Luna are stitching up the boys; Ben escaped the brawl unscathed but Cass and Jackson both have pretty nasty-looking knuckles. Nick, in the worst state out of all of them, disappeared before anyone could get to him, grumbling something about cleaning himself up. However, he left the first aid kit on the coffee table and I doubt hand soap is going to do much to heal his wounds.
So, I’m hovering outside his room, the first aid kit and a bottle of rum cradled in my arm, trying to find the courage to knock because the least I can do is clean him up, since he’s all banged up because of me, but what if he’s mad? If I was him, I’d be mad. I ruined his birthday, I got him punched in the face, I snapped at him in the kitchen because I was feeling weird and jealous and insecure.
Sucking in a deep breath, I push my preoccupations aside because I owe him this much. Like I said, it’s the least I can do. And maybe I want to make sure he’s okay.
Not long passes after I rap my knuckles—the ones not swollen and sore—against the door do I hear a gruff permission to enter. Opening the door, I peek my head into the room. The dim, empty room, only lit by the small amount of light coming from the ensuite. The door closes behind me with a soft click as I pad towards the bathroom, nudging open the slightly ajar door with my foot.
A shirtless Nick stands in front of the sink. The tap running, he splashes water on his face and hands, a pitiful attempt to get the blood off of him, completely missing the dried red splotches staining his neck and collarbone. My eyes roam, not to admire or fawn over the perfect ridges and muscles making up Nick’s torso but to note each bruise and cut. Stomach turning and resisting the urge to cry, I lean against the doorframe and clear my throat. “You should just shower.”
Nick’s head jerks towards me and I wince as I’m fully confronted by the sight of him. In a mere half hour, his injuries have gone from bad to worse. The bleeding has stopped but the multiple bruises scattered across his face and body have darkened considerably, an ugly rainbow of purple, yellow, and blue. Yet despite his pitiable appearance, those pretty eyes light up with a familiar cocky glint and his lips—despite the fact the top one is cut and must hurt like a bitch—slant upward. “Are you offering to join me?”
Tears tickle the back of my throat but I swallow them down. Rolling my eyes, I brandish the goods I snagged from downstairs. “Shower, please, so I can sew you up.”
It should be illegal, really, how he manages to look so handsome, so charming, with a face that damaged. “If I’m a good boy, do I get a drink?”
And it should be illegal that not even a severe beating can knock the flirt out of him.
“Shower,” I repeat sternly, awkwardly jostling the things in my arms so I can grasp the door knob. “Or I’m handing you over to Ben.”
It’s a bluff, of course. I’ll help fix him up even if I have to tie him down to do it. But it has the desired effect; Nick’s groan is muffled as I pull the door shut, the smallest chuckle escaping me despite the situation. Setting the supplies on the nightstand, I perch on the edge of Nick’s bed, nervously wringing my hands in my lap. I smile faintly when the shower turns on, feeling a fleeting sense of accomplishment because at least I’ve done one thing right tonight. However, my face soon falls when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
Honestly, Nick’s beat-up face has nothing on me.
He looks like he’s in pain but I look straight-up dead, even worse than I did the last time I woke up here. There isn’t a hint of color in my pale skin, no sign of life behind green irises, even my damn hair looks dull. With the dark circles under my eyes, I look like the one who took several punches. And my dress, my poor beautiful dress, is white no more. Splattered with blood, stained with grass stains, and inciting the overwhelming urge to rip it off and burn it.
I’m wondering if Nick would mind me stealing more of his clothes when my reflection blurs, the door abruptly swinging open to reveal a wet, half-naked Nick. A flutter of deja-vu hits me except, contrary to last time, I can’t stop my eyes from drifting to his chest. Purely because that’s where my eyeline is, of course.
No other reason.
Like earlier, though, I can’t focus on the sculpted brawn or the deep valleys between his pronounced abs or the tempting v of muscles leading to the towel wrapped low and loose around his hips. No, all I can see is the swirling mass of bruises slightly hidden by his tattoos.
“Enjoying the view?” My gaze darts up to find his teasing but soft. Comforting. “It looks worse than it is, querida.”
Hm. Didn’t I just claim the same about my wrist and knuckles less than ten minutes ago when both are smarting something fierce? “You should see a doctor..”
Nick quirks a challenging brow, glancing pointedly at my wrist. “I will if you do.”
“You might have a concussion.”
“I don’t.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“It’s the opinion of someone who’s had a concussion before.” Crossing the room to rifle in the chest of drawers tucked in the corner, Nick gives no warning before dropping his towel. A muffled squeak gets caught in my throat as I quickly avert my gaze, not quite quick enough to avoid an eyeful of bronzed, toned ass that’s probably going to be stamped in my brain until the end of time. Cheeks flushed for a myriad of reasons, I only risk an upward glance when footsteps sound and stop right in front of me. A semi-clothed Nick—he forewent a top but at least he’s wearing sweats—smirks down at me. “Why would I go to a doctor when I have you?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You study medicine.”
“Physiotherapy,” I correct. Big freaking difference.
Nick tuts, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Eh, same thing.”
I don’t get the chance to argue that no, they’re not the same thing. I forget I was going to argue at all, actually, when he pulls me gently to my feet and switches our positions, sitting in the spot I vacated and guiding me to stand in front of him. My traitorous heart skips a beat when he spreads his legs and maneuvers me between them, pesky guilt suddenly fighting for dominance over something else entirely as I’m trapped between a pair of thick thighs. “Fix me up, doc.”
It’s a miracle I manage to soak a handful of cotton balls without getting antiseptic solution everywhere; my hands are shaking something fierce and I can only pray when my fingers skirt his jawline, tilting his head from side to side so I can assess the damage, he doesn’t notice the tremors. In my defense, it’s hard to keep your composure when there’s a very large pair of hands dangerously close to your ass.
Resigned to my fate, I warn, “This is gonna sting a bit.”
Nick crooks a dark, split brow. “I’m a big boy, querida.”
I bite down on my bottom lip to prevent a smile when the second I press the cotton to one of the many scrapes littering his face, he winces and hisses out a curse. But once again, my cheer is short-lived; it fizzles out when he reacts the same again and again and again for every cut I dab.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as my thumb sweeps over his cheek in a way meant to be comforting but is probably weird.
“Stop apologizing,” Nick murmurs, his breath washing over my hand as I swipe his bloody lip clean. I must press too hard, though, because he jolts slightly, his quiet groan echoed by my hushed gasp when his hands suddenly grip the backs of my thighs, his long fingers hot against my skin. It only lasts a split second—like it was a gut reaction or a reflex or something—but the impression feels branding. The aftermath too, a lingering, tangible thing making it difficult for me to breathe properly.
It’s Nick’s turn to apologize, his gaze squarely fixed on my collarbone as his jaw clenches. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was blush creeping up his neck, discoloring his bronze skin.
“It’s okay.” I toss the newest bloodied cotton ball into the growing pile on the nightstand before stepping back an inch, making enough room between us for me to pick up his hands and inspect his knuckles. Like the rest of him, they’re pretty banged up, bruised and swollen from repeatedly pummelling Dylan but they’re not split.
Nodding my satisfaction, I drop his hands and step away to retrieve the trusty Arnica, wondering if a single tube is even enough.
My patient, however, has other plans.
“Can I just…” Nick starts and doesn’t finish. His hands flex and clench repeatedly where they rest on his thighs as he momentarily grapples for words. Sighing, he peers up at me so softly, so gently, it makes me want to cry all over again. “C’mere for a second.”
I’m not sure I have a choice but I’m also not sure I’d object. Not when strong hands wrap pull me between his thighs again. I’m silent and pliant as he guides me to sit sideways on one of his broad thighs. One hand glides to rest on the small of my back while the other coasts upwards. His palms glides over my neck, his thumb tracing my jawbone, and he holds me like that. He stares at me, something undecipherable flooding his golden irises as they inspect me carefully.
“What’re you doing?” I ask in a whisper, for some reason. Probably because it feels like we’re doing something… not wrong, exactly. Illicit isn’t the right word either. Dangerous, maybe.
Dangerous because when he cups the back of my head, coaxes it to rest in the crook where his neck meets his shoulder, and nestles his face in my hair, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
And when he murmurs, “I just gotta hold you for a sec,” in a quiet, calm, honest voice, that feels pretty freaking perilous too.
Nick gets his chance to play nurse.
After holding me for what simultaneously feels like too long and not long enough, he shoos me into the bathroom with a change of clothes bundled in my arms. “Trying to get me out of my dress, Silva?” I’d quipped and almost immediately, I’d regretted it.
Not a single beat passed before he was flashing me that killer—if currently a little distorted smile—and those freaking wonderful dimples made an appearance. They winked at me in all their glory and suddenly, the long line of women begging for Nick’s attention made even more sense; I’d probably beg a little too if it got me personal access to that smile, those dimples, on a regular basis.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” was his quick response and while externally, I’d simply rolled my eyes and disappeared into the ensuite, internally, I was fawning like a damsel.
And when I try to leave the bathroom—my ruined dress swapped for another pair of too-big sweats and another form-swallowing t-shirt and the softest, most luxurious socks I’ve ever worn in my freaking life—and Nick stops me with a firm hand on my shoulder, I fawn all over again.
“My turn to take care you,” he informs me, leaving no room for arguments; before I can even begin to formulate one, he’s hoisting me up and setting me on the bathroom counter. With a tenderness contradicting his hulking form, he cradles my hands, a contradicting glare on his face as he inspects them thoroughly. His chest—still bare because he’s obviously trying to punish me—heave as he sucks in a deep breath, releasing it in an angry puff. “You know, I don’t know whether I should be furious at you for almost breaking your hand or weirdly proud for giving him what he deserves.”
“Personally, I’m leaning towards the latter.”
Nick huffs again, an odd cross between a snarl and a laugh. When he determines my wounds aren’t fatal, he sets my hands gently on my thighs. I expect him to back away but, as usual, he surprises me. Pressing closer until my knees dig into his lower stomach, his palms come down on either side of me, caging me in. He doesn’t say anything, seemingly content with staring at my hands, and I fidget under the intensity. Silence morphs into tension, thick between us, and when I can’t take it anymore, I dig my knee into him harder. “Does your scowl have healing powers or something?”
His gaze darts to mine and I reel back at the emotions swarming it, none of them distinguishable but all of them so potent. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.”
“No, it’s not.” It’s no one’s fault but my own.
“You were outside because of me,” he says through gritted teeth. “Because I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. I got… spooked.”
God, he’s going to break his own damn jaw with all that clenching. “I scared you.”
“Spooked,” I repeat with emphasis because there’s a definite difference. “It caught me off guard.”
It upset me if I’m being honest. My silly little head took what he said—did I mention you look really fucking hot tonight?—and ran with it because of course he was hitting on me. Of course, that’s what this has all been about. Why else would he go through all that effort—the boxing, the heroics, all the little moments I ridiculously thought were special—if not for it to all be a ploy to get into my pants?
To quote Luna quoting some drunk, scorned woman; Nicolas Silva doesn’t fuck with feelings.
Nicolas Silva just fucks.
Sure, he flirts and he teases and he charms on a regular basis. I don’t think he can turn it off. But this was different; he got that look on his face I’ve seen him use on other women, he complimented me with empty words, and I had never felt more disappointed in myself or in someone else as I did in that moment.
And then he got his freaking ass beat on my behalf and I realized I’m an overreacting fool.
But that’s not something you divulge. It makes me sound petty and pitiful and jealous over something, someone, I have no right to be jealous over. So, in lieu of all that, I say, “It was weird. You hitting on me was weird.
“Weird,” Nick repeats slowly, rolling the word like it tastes bad on his tongue.
“Yeah.” I shift. “Because we’re friends.”
Again, he parrots, “Friends.”
I nod, gaining enough courage to add, “You’ve helped me a lot these past few weeks. I freaked and thought maybe it was all some ulterior motive and I didn’t like that.”
“It wasn’t.” He’s so quick to reassure me I have no choice but to believe him.
“Okay.” Taking the hand he offers me, I hop down off the counter.
He keeps a hold of me, his thumb swiping over my pulse. “Are we good?”
I squeeze his hand. “We’re good.”
What the hell else am I going to say? No? Screw you and your poor, beaten body, you heroic little shit?
“Wanna go back downstairs?”
My nose wrinkles at the suggestion. “Not really.”
Part of the reason I came up here in the first place was to escape Cass’ suffocating gaze. I love him so much and I understand why he’s so concerned but the constant attention only serves to remind me of what I’d rather forget. Right now, what I need is a distraction.
And staying up here with Nick seems like a pretty good one.
