Page 145 of Detectives in Love

And in the same breath, Xavier moves—charging straight at him, without a flicker of hesitation.

There’s a crash as two bodies slam into the coffee table, followed by the clatter of plates and forks. I rush to them, but there’s another heavy thud—an oomph—and the masked figure slips free, wriggling out of Xavier’s grip. Xavier hits the floor, and the intruder bolts toward the door.

For a split second, I freeze, torn between going after him or checking on Xavier.

“After him, Newt!” Xavier shouts, breathless.

I’ve already lost too much time—but just as I move, the intruder suddenly slips, crashing to the floor. That’s all I need. I leap, landing hard on top of him, pinning him down as he grunts and curses, thrashing under me, trying to throw me off.

I feel the rough fabric under us—the blanket Xavier carelessly dropped by the door. That’s what the intruder slipped on.

We struggle for a few seconds, limbs tangled, breaths harsh. I twist his left arm, hard, and he cries out, slumping beneath me. I think I’ve got him—I reach for his mask—

Pain explodes through my thigh, sudden, blinding. I jerk back with a curse, my hand flying to the hilt of the knife now buried in my leg.

That’s when the bastard shoves me off in one hard motion and bolts for the door.

I hit the floor, gasping, both hands pressing around the blade. Blood gushes hot between my fingers, and my head spins.

“Are you alright?” Xavier’s voice cuts through the haze as he drops to his knees beside me, his face tight with panic. “Are you bleeding?”

“Yeah,” I hiss, pain shooting through my leg.

He stands, and for a second, I think he’s going to go after the guy—but instead, he flips on the light and rushes back to me, dropping down again. Yeah, the light doesn’t make it look better.

“Give me your shirt,” Xavier says, already reaching for it—pulling it over my head before I can answer. Then he bunches it up and presses it firmly against the wound.

Even though it’s life or death—and Xavier’s seen me shirtless plenty of times—I still feel weirdly self-conscious. Not just because of the harsh light, or the scars, or the bruises from our morgue trip, but because Xavier’s shirtless too, and next to him I look like some gym newbie in his first year.

I know. Sometimes my brain just does its own thing.

“Can you hold it for a moment?” he asks, locking eyes with me. “I need to get my phone to call an ambulance.”

“Yeah,” I nod, gripping the shirt and applying pressure.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, already running into his room through the kitchen.

He’s back in seconds, phone to his ear, talking rapidly to the dispatcher. Then he’s kneeling beside me again, one hand holding the shirt pressed around the blade, the other dialing Willand. I spot the medkit tucked under his arm, the one he must’ve grabbed from the bedroom. After letting Willand know what happened, he sets his phone down, pulls out a roll of bandages, cuts a long strip, folds it into a thick pad, and swaps it in for my blood-soaked shirt. Then he starts wrapping my thigh—fast and tight—layering the bandages over the pad and around the knife, pressing down hard.

He doesn’t even look at me until he’s done. When he finally does, I catch the worry in his eyes, even though he tries to cover it with a small, crooked smile.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he says, pulling out a pack of wet wipes. He cleans the blood off his hands first, then gently takes mine and wipes them too.

I just watch him, still kind of dazed by the whole thing.

“How are you feeling?” Xavier asks, tossing the bloody wipes into a pile on the floor.

“I’m fine,” I say, managing a smile. “Don’t worry.”

I mean, someone just broke into our apartment, so yeah—I’m a little shaken, but that kind of goes without saying.

“Do you think it was Mrs. Bridge’s killer?” I ask.

Xavier nods. “Yeah. I do.”

I frown. “What was he doing here? Trying to kill us?”

“He was looking for Bridge’s laptop,” Xavier says without missing a beat.