Ch 12: Of Blood and Bandages
The smell of iron woke her.
Elena's eyes snapped open in the dark. She was in the center of the bed—still in that place of defiant occupation—but her body was rigid. The smell was unmistakable. Blood. Metallic. Fresh.
She didn't move. She barely breathed.
Male. Injured. Present. Danger. A wounded predator was the most unpredictable kind.
She heard the soft, wet slap on the marble bathroom floor. The scrape of a zipper. Then the hiss of the shower.
He was back. And he was hurt.
The fear was a cold stone in her gut. But beneath it, the old habit stirred. The part of her that had bandaged her own wounds because no one else would. The part of her where empathy still lived.
Don't. Don't think. Don't feel. He's not worth your care.
The shower ran. She lay still, listening.
Minutes passed. The water stopped. The bathroom door opened—a slash of light, then darkness. She felt the shift in the air as a large, warm body moved in the dark. The clean smell of his soap now mixed with the deeper scent of blood.
Elena heard the soft rustle of fabric. Then silence.
He was standing there. Looking at her. She could feel his gaze on her back, assessing the unprecedented sight of her claiming the center of his domain.
The mattress dipped near her feet. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Silence stretched. Elena held her breath, muscles locked. A traitorous tremor started in her clasped hands. Her brow furrowed.
"Stop pretending." His voice was low and rough. Weary. "You're trembling."
He knew. It was an order that couldn't be refused. She turned slowly and opened her eyes.
Moonlight outlined him. He was shirtless, one arm braced on his knee. A dark, ragged gash stained the skin over his ribs—still seeping, still fresh.
Without looking away, he reached to the nightstand cabinet and opened it. Inside, neatly arranged, were bandages, antiseptic, and gauze. He took out a wipe, tore it open with his teeth, and dragged it across the gash. His body tensed—a sharp inhale the only sign of pain. Even in the dim light, Elena could see the wound was deep, angry.
"Does the sight bother you?" His voice was detached. "The blood? The damage?"
Elena's gaze flickered from the wound to his face. She shook her head quickly, a jerky motion. She brought her hands up and signed, mouthing the word: ‘No.’
He watched her hands with a faint, cynical twist of his mouth.
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"No?" His free hand hovered near the open collar of her dress. His fingertips brushed the hollow of her throat, where her pulse hammered. "Your heart is beating fast."
She flinched back, pressing herself into the mattress. Her eyes darted away.
A short, derisive exhale escaped him. He leaned back against the headboard and tossed the bloody wipe onto the floor.
"Liar."
His hand shot out and closed around her wrist, pulling her hand toward his injury. Her fingers trembled violently in his grasp, just inches from the torn flesh. She tried to pull back—a silent, frantic resistance.
Kazimir released her wrist, only to wrap an arm around her waist and yank her forward. Elena half-sprawled against his side.
"You're afraid of me. We both know it." He leaned down, his voice a low vibration in her ear. "Stop pretending."
She shook her head and made a choked sound, the closest she could come to a protest.
He caught her chin. Forced her to look at him.
"Why?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "What scares you? The blood? Or are you regretting it already?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers tangled in her hair as he guided her face closer to his injured side.
"Since you decided to play his game, clean it. Act like my wife."
Elena's eyes—wide with terror—went to the wound. The ragged edges. The slow welling of blood that needed care, needed attention, needed her.
She shook her head. A desperate, minute motion.
He grabbed the antiseptic and a fresh gauze pad from the kit before shoving them into her palm, folding her fingers around them. His hand closed over hers, forcing it toward the wound.
"If you’re not afraid, touch it."
A tear broke free. Then another. She lowered her head in submission and brought the gauze to his side.
Her hands trembled, but they were competent. Gentle. Precise. She dabbed the blood with careful attention, cleaned the edges, and applied the ointment. The world shrank to the wound, the gauze, the rhythm of cleaning and dressing. This was something she knew. She pulled the bandage taut around his torso and secured it with a flat knot.
Kazimir went still. His cynical detachment evaporated. He watched her hands as if he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing.
When she finished and attempted to retreat, his hand came up again. Fingers slid into her hair—not painfully this time, but searching. He tilted her head back.
"Who taught you that?" His voice was rough.
Elena's breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Look at me." He gave her head a small, sharp shake. "Answer."
She opened her hazel eyes. Tears swam. Her lips trembled as she mouthed the words: ‘Myself.’
He stared. His grip tightened, as if he could extract a different answer.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. The confusion in his eyes contorted. He released her hair.
"Stop." He wiped his thumb across her wet cheek. "Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity."
Elena shook her head. A fresh wave of tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks.
He froze. His eyes widened. His grip slackened—then fell away entirely.
"Go to sleep."
He turned on his heel and stalked out. The door slammed.
Elena lay where he'd left her. Her wrist burned.
Slowly, she curled onto her side. Pulled her knees to her chest. Wrapped her arms around herself. Silent sobs wracked her.
The careful bandaging she'd offered—born of years of tending her own wounds—met not with thanks, but with rage.
She pressed her face into the pillow that smelled of his shampoo and cried without sound.
In this house, even mercy had a price. And prices were always paid by the weakest.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/9/26