Page 54 of The Chosen
If I told him everything right now, he wouldn’t remember.
I needed him to remember how his rash decision affected me.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” I announced, ignoring his question.
Spinning on my heels, I headed toward the bathroom and retrieved a small kit, along with a few towels and washcloths. Then I slipped into the kitchen and filled a bowl with warm water.
When I returned, he was no longer upright but lying on the couch, an arm over his eyes.
“You need to sit up so I can look at you.”
He groaned, but started to push himself up anyway. As he did, he winced in pain.
“Where does it hurt?” I asked, worried he had some hidden injuries.
He blew out a laugh. “I think the better question might be where it doesn’t hurt.”
“Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No hospitals. You wouldn’t be able to come with me. And I don’t want to be away from you.”
My heart warmed, and I had to remind myself I was supposed to be mad at him.
“You are such a stubborn ass,” I muttered under my breath, reaching for his shirt and hastily unbuttoning it.
“You that hungry for me, baby?” A lazy grin tugged on his mouth, which ended up being a lopsided smile because of how swollen it was.
“Right now, I’m definitely not hungry for you,” I shot back sternly. “But seeing as how you felt the need to put yourself in a life-threatening situation, I need to check you for other injuries.”
The fabric peeled away from his skin with a faint stickiness from where the blood had dried. But that wasn’t what left me momentarily speechless. His torso was now an abstract canvas of bruises — dark purple and sickening yellows spreading across his ribs and abdomen.
“Henry…”
“It’s fine,” he assured me. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
I gaped at his bruises, tears welling in my eyes as I thought about what he must have endured to come home looking like he did, fear mixing with worry and pure anger.
“You are such a goddamn idiot.” I poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a cloth and pressed it against the open wound on his forehead.
He grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath.
“You’ve got quite the bedside manner there, Nurse Ratched.”
“If you wanted to be handled with kid gloves, maybe you shouldn’t have gone to see the fucking Bratva,” I snipped out, pouring more alcohol onto a fresh cloth and pressing it to the open cut on his bottom lip “You should be happy you’re injured. Otherwise, I may have just killed you myself.”
“That’s it, baby. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
I threw down the rag and forced an eyelid open, checking his pupil. Based on the size and his overall demeanor, I’d guess he had a mild concussion.
Without another word, I stood and headed to the bathroom, grabbing the small waste bin before returning to Henry and shoving it into his hands. “In case you need to throw up.”
He studied me through his barely opened eyelids. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he asked again.
“I’m not mad,” I responded, although I wasn’t sure how true that was. I was so much more than mad. Angry. Livid. Irate. “I’m more…disappointed.”
He groaned, resting his head against the back of the couch. “That’s worse than you being mad. Can’t you just yell at me? Tell me I’m an inconsiderate prick.”
“I’m not going to yell at you, Henry. But what you did tonight?” I fought back my tears. “It was stupid. And what made it worse is that you didn’t tell me. I had to find out from Blake.”
