Page 47 of Drunk On Love

Oh. My. God.

Is this blood? Dripping down his back, soaking through his shirt, each crimson stain sent a jolt of panic through me. He must have gotten hurt when all those sharp-edged boxes and packets came crashing down as he tried to protect me.

Yes… he shielded me from every falling object, but he got hurt in the process. And yet, he didn’t even seem to notice—his entire focus was on gathering the scattered boxes and packets from the floor.

“Manav!” I rushed toward him, my voice trembling as I reached out to stop him.

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“Where the hell did you go?” I blurted out, my frustration spilling over the moment he opened the door. “I’ve been ringing the bell for the last thirty minutes! Your phone is switched off, and I—” I stopped, taking a deep breath to rein in my tone. “I was worried about how badly you got hurt…”

Manav’s brows furrowed in genuine surprise as he looked at me, his gaze flickering down to the first aid box in my hands.

“Hi?” He said, running a hand through his still-damp hair, droplets glistening on his forehead. “Sorry… I was in the shower.” He stepped aside to let me enter.

Ofcourse. My eyes couldn’t help but trace the faint redness around his collar where the blood had been.

While he poured water into glasses, I set the first aid box down on the table, glancing back at him. He was already seated on a stool, watching me quietly, his eyes tracking my every move.

“I don’t need this,” he muttered, glancing at the ointment in my hand like it was a waste of time.

“Yes, you do…”

“Kiara…”

“Now… be a good boy,” I said, motioning for him to turn around.

He flinched slightly when my fingers brushed against his back, revealing deep scratches etched across his skin. They looked fresh and angry, as though something sharp had clawed into him. My gaze drifted over an old scar, faint but unmistakably there, standing out against the smooth expanse of his skin.

When I reached out and traced the scar with the tips of my fingers—curious, unthinking—his entire body stilled.

He didn’t flinch.

He froze.

Every muscle went taut beneath my touch, like I’d brushed over something that wasn’t meant to be touched. A memory still alive under the skin.

“How did this happen?” I asked softly, my fingers grazing the line of damaged tissue again.

His shoulders dipped slightly, tension unraveling just a little.

Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “Old wound. A knife tore through some muscle.”

My breath caught. “Someonestabbedyou?”

“It was a long time ago,” he said, voice clipped. Controlled. Like each word had to pass through a filter of pain before reaching the surface.

I let my fingers linger over the scar, slower this time. A deliberate gesture.

“Why would someone stab you?” I asked gently.

“I was trying to protect someone.”

“A girlfriend?” I asked before I could stop myself, the word tasting unsure on my tongue.

“Ex-girlfriend.”

I hesitated. “Do you… Still love her?”