Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 7

After grabbing the first aid kit that’s sitting on a side table, she comes over and perches that delectable ass on the couch next to me. She’s ensuring our legs don’t touch, making me think she’s not as unaffected by me as she’d like me to believe. *Let’s test that theory, shall we?*

“Lift your arm and sit still,” she orders, and I find it amusing that she thinks she can boss me around.

Without saying a word, I sling my arm over the back of the couch to give her enough space to work her magic.

Peeling back the bandage slowly but surely, the wound comes into view. Since I opened it up again a couple of minutes ago, it has stopped bleeding, but the gash is still raw and angry-looking. *Perfect.*

She’s all business initially, not saying a word as she cleans the wound. When it comes to her putting anti-bacterial ointment on, I notice her fingers tremble slightly as they tentatively glide over my skin, and her eyes drift to my abs every few seconds.

*She’s trying so hard not to look. Adorable. Should I flex? No, that’ll be too obvious. But maybe if I shift just a little... There we go. Oh, she’s blushing.*

Clearing her throat but still not making eye contact, she covers the wound with a fresh bandage and then grumbles under her breath, “I could’ve sworn the wound was larger last night.” She isn’t wrong, but I won’t correct her just yet.

She gets up, looking everywhere but at me, making me smirk. “Coffee’s in the kitchen; help yourself. I’m just going upstairs to get dressed.” *What a shame. I was enjoying the view.*

“Okay,” I gruffly say, slowly rising, fake grunting as if I’m still in immense pain. Her eyes jump to mine as she rushes over, grabbing my biceps, concern shining in her green orbs.

“Careful, you big oaf. Sit back down, and I’ll bring you the coffee and pain medications.” She quickly hustles out of the room, giving me a chance to hide my victorious smirk. *I could snap a tree in half right now, but sure, let’s pretend I need her help.*

After a few minutes, she’s back, a black coffee mug in one hand, her other hand clasped shut – presumably around the pain pills. “I presume you take your coffee like your demeanor, black and overpowering,” she says with a slight smirk as she hands me the mug and drops the pills into my awaiting opposite hand.

“In fact, I like my coffee like my women: sweet, full-bodied, and at least once a day.” Her brain does that misfiring thing again, and I pat myself on the back internally.

Without saying a word, she rushes from the room before I hear her footsteps stomp up the stairs. Rising to my feet, without any theatrics this time, and not needing to take the pills, I slip them into my pants pocket.

I begin exploring her living room while sipping the coffee, and her bookcase catches my eye. I choke on the hot liquid when I notice the genre that’s most prominently stacked on the various shelves: vampire romance. *Oh, my little pet, this will be so much fun.*

When I hear her coming down the stairs a little while later, I return to the couch and dramatically clutch my side as if I’m in immense pain. When she enters the room, the look of concern is evident when she sees I’m “distressed”.

“Did you drink the pills?” she asks as she comes over, grabs a throw pillow from underneath the bay window, and fluffs it up before placing it against the arm of the couch. Not giving me a chance to answer, she takes hold of my shoulders and pushes me so my head rests on the pillow. My feet she lifts so they are dangling off the side of the opposite couch arm. “Rest, I’ll rustle you up something to eat; it should help the meds work faster.”  

She doesn’t notice my lack of response as she leaves the living room. Her touches so far have been tentative and fleeting, but when she grabbed onto me just now, my insides lit up like a firework show at a Fourth of July celebration. I’ve never felt something like it, and I never want to live without it again.

*Does she have any idea what she’s done by touching me? Any idea what she’s awakened? No. But she will.*

Lost in thought, the soft swearing and clattering of pots and pans take a while to filter through my musings. Wondering what she’s up to, I lean up and peer over the back of the couch. She’s bustling about, pulling cabinet doors open to slam them shut mere seconds later, evidently not finding what she was looking for inside.

A sudden excited “Aha” is heard before the noise settles to an eerily quiet din. I’m not sure if I should be worried or curious. I decide to leave her be, for now, just hoping that she doesn’t inadvertently give me food poisoning.

Not long after, she comes back, holding a bowl with something hot inside if the steam drifting from it is any indication. She places it on the coffee table before me and then leans over to grab my elbow. Again, her touch is like a livewire that’s causing havoc in my system.

“Here, let me help you sit up to eat some of this soup. It isn’t much, but I made it from scratch with the few ingredients I could find, so it should not taste like tinned soup laced with copious amounts of salt.”

“You made this?” comes my pathetic response as I struggle to comprehend what her words mean.

“Yes, Mr. Crankypants. I know it probably is beneath you to consume food generally enjoyed and prepared by us peasants. But considering the circumstances you find yourself in, beggars can’t be choosers right now,” she huffs at me, obviously irritated at my perceived dig at what she’s made.

What she doesn’t realize, though, is that my question was more rhetorical than condescending. My brain is having trouble fathoming that this angel, *my angel*, made me something as simple but significant as soup – the same guy who has been rude to and short with her since I opened my eyes.

*Goddess. I’ve commanded armies, ruled kingdoms, and bent men to my will. And yet, this woman making me soup is my undoing?*