You're Bleeding
She chuckled weakly between breaths. "Don’t start talking to me like a doctor now, dear."
"I am a doctor," I reminded her, shifting so I could grab her wrist and check her pulse.
"Show off," she muttered, but she didn’t pull away.
Rowan drove fast but carefully, his hands gripping the wheel tight enough his knuckles turned pale.
He kept glancing at the rearview mirror, checking on us. Checking on her.
By the time we pulled up to the care home—an upscale, quiet place tucked into a grove of trees Lady Isolde was pale and clammy. I refused to leave her like that.
Inside, the nurses rushed over when they saw me supporting her.
“She overexerted herself,” I explained quickly. “Vitals unstable, probable arrhythmia. Get her stabilized start her on oxygen and watch for atrial fibrillation.”
The nurses nodded and wheeled her quickly toward the medical wing.
I followed, ignoring the stares, staying close until she was hooked up to monitors, her breathing slower but steady.
Lady Isolde smiled weakly at me as I tucked the blanket higher around her.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, her voice faint but still carrying that unmistakable strength.
I squeezed her hand lightly. “Don’t mention it. Just rest.”
She smiled wider almost mischievously.
“They say I have heart failure,” she said casually, like discussing the weather. “Congestive. Slow, messy. Ugly. The doctors say I should be careful.”
I frowned, biting the inside of my cheek.
“They think it’ll have me soon, that I would be dead before tomorrow, ” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Then she chuckled dryly, “But it won't. Not yet. And not ever. I have too much unfinished business.”
I smiled faintly. “Stubbornness might just be your best medicine.”
“Damn right it is,” she said proudly.
I tucked the blanket around her one last time before stepping out into the cool night air.
Rowan was there leaning against the brick wall of the care home, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded tightly across his chest.
His head tipped back when he heard me approach.
“You weren’t meant to see that,” he said quietly.
I stopped a few steps away, the night wind lifting my hair.
“I didn’t expect Grandpa to do that in front of the family,” Rowan added, his voice rougher now. “Not like that.”
I walked toward him slowly, my heart squeezing at the sight of him leaning there—shoulders tense, eyes shadowed, like he was carrying the whole damn world on his back.
Rowan barely looked at me as I stopped beside him. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere far beyond the stars overhead.
"I always knew he was harsh," I said quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper. "But I didn’t realize how bad it really was."
He didn’t answer right away.
The wind rustled through the trees nearby, the leaves whispering things we were too scared to say.
"I thought it was normal," he muttered finally. "Growing up like that. Being... molded. You’re either strong or you’re broken. That’s what he taught me."
I stared at him, my chest aching.
"They don’t raise children in that family," I said softly. "They build weapons."
He let out a hollow laugh that held no humor. "Yeah. And half the time, they end up using them on each other."
I didn't say anything. There was nothing left to explain.
Nothing left to argue.
They had beaten him. Shaped him. Expected him to survive the impossible—and blamed him when he bled.
Slowly, I reached for him, wrapping my arms around his middle.
He stiffened for a second, caught off guard. But then, slowly, he melted into the embrace, his hands coming up to grip the back of my jacket tightly like he needed something—someone—to anchor him.
I pressed my face against his chest, breathing him in. He smelled like crisp night air and something deeper, something bruised but still standing.
"You’re not like them," I whispered against him. "You never were."
Rowan said nothing. He just held me tighter.
It wasn’t until I shifted slightly that I felt something warm and sticky under my hand.
I pulled back instinctively, frowning.
That’s when I saw it.
The faint line of blood staining the back of his collar.
"Rowan..." I said carefully, my heart lurching. "You’re injured."
His brows drew together, confused at first, until he touched the back of his head and his fingers came away red.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
The cane.
That old bastard had actually hurt him.
I grabbed his hand, already moving toward the car. "We’re cleaning you up. Now."
He didn’t argue.
And for once, neither of us pretended it didn’t hurt.
*****
I practically dragged Rowan back into the house, my heart thundering the entire time.
He didn’t resist—just followed quietly, letting me pull him by the wrist like he wasn’t six-foot-something and built like a fortress. I knew he was hurting, but typical Rowan, he wouldn’t say a word about it unless someone forced it out of him.
The moment we got inside, I marched him to the kitchen where the better first aid supplies were stashed in one of the drawers.
"Sit," I ordered, pointing to one of the chairs.
He gave me a small, crooked smile—the kind he pulled out when he knew he was caught—but did as he was told. He slouched slightly, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees as he watched me rummage through the drawer.
"You’re bossy when you’re worried," he murmured.
"And you’re annoying when you’re bleeding," I shot back, grabbing antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a small bottle of saline.
Rowan chuckled under his breath, but it faded quickly when I knelt beside him and started cleaning the blood from the back of his head.
I worked gently, but he still flinched when the cold saline touched the open wound.
"Sorry," I whispered.
He shook his head. "It’s nothing."
"You always say that," I muttered, dabbing carefully with the gauze. "Even when it’s not true."
He was quiet after that, letting me work. His breathing was steady, the kind of controlled quiet he only used when he was hiding pain.
As I tilted his head slightly forward to check the depth of the cut, I caught a glimpse of the strong line of his throat, the faint stubble grazing his jaw.
My chest tightened painfully.
Because under all that strength—under all the stubbornness and quiet fury—he was still just... a man.
A man trying so hard to protect the people he loved, even when it broke him.
"You didn’t deserve what they did to you," I said softly, almost to myself.
Rowan tensed beneath my hands. "It doesn’t matter anymore."
"It matters to me," I said, meeting his eyes.
For a moment, we just star
ed at each other, the bandages forgotten between us.
I don’t know who moved first.
Maybe it was him, maybe it was me. Maybe it didn’t matter.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
