Page 52 of Caged
“Want me to call the doc?”
I don’t feel light headed. “No, I’m fine. I can stitch myself.”
If I can make it in the house without Melissa seeing.
It’s past midnight when I pull into the driveway. As quietly as I can, I grab the medical kit and head down the hall towards my room.
“Why are you bleeding?” Melissa asks from behind me.
Shit. Maybe this is why I ended up getting stabbed, too distracted.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re dripping on the carpet.” She follows me and stands next to my bed with her arms folded across her chest.
“I’ll pay for cleaners.” I don’t remember her being my mother.
And, she isn’t my wife. The floor shouldn’t be a worry.
“That isn’t the point.” Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror as she catches me wincing trying to remove my shirt. “Let me help.”
“I got it,” I grumble.
Without giving me a chance to object, she walks past me and swiftly takes the kit from my hand. Placing it aside, she then slides her hands under the fabric and pulls it over my shoulder.
“Shit,” she breathes before grabbing one of the velcro straps and ripping it open.
“Stop. I’ll take care of it.” I clench her wrist with my good arm, and hold away from me.
Her eyes narrow. “The hell you do.” She pushes directly on my wound, and it buckles me over.
Keeping the momentum, she forces me backwards, and before I know it, I’m sprawled across my mattress.
And damn, I shouldn’t be turned on this much. Remembering how her lips felt earlier on mine and the fact she got me into this position at her mercy.
I can sense the rage coming from her.
I’m impressed.
And I fucking need her.
NINETEEN
MILA
“Being reckless will get you killed, Nikolai,” I mutter, trying to calm the burning inferno inside me.
“It wasn’t. I’m alive, aren’t I?”
He closes his eyes as I gently assess the wound. It’s not too bad, a bit deeper than I’d like. I resist the urge to stab my finger in it to teach him a lesson.
If I were Mila right now, I would and I’d make sure it hurt.
“Your daughter deserves better.” I know how it feels to be orphaned. She needs her daddy.
He sits himself up on his forearms with a groan and more blood drips from the wound onto the white sheets.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” He almost growls.