Page 19 of Killaney Blood

The thought makes me sad. So starved for attention that even bad attention I'll latch onto. Jesus, I need to get my shit together.

And I hate that all this stirs something in me.

I need to get a grip. Remember to not let my guard down. Protect myself. He's just like those men that have done terrible things that I've seen and had to fix. They don't care about anyone but themselves.

I will not be fooled.

After a few minutes, my breathing steadies. My mind clears, and I feel like I've taken back the reins of my betraying body.

I'm arranging some supplies when the door opens behind me.

Please don't be him.

Please don't be him.

I start to turn, and it's like I already know. Like I can feel a presence shift that is unexplainable, just felt.

There he stands. Shirt still off. Still looking like that.

He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. More tattoos I didn't notice in my state of panic are visible now. They cover his chest. I follow them down his sides, across his tight stomach, and watch as they disappear below the waistband of his shorts.

Goddammit.

I freeze. Just for a second. I turn away quickly, busying myself with a box of gloves.

"What?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. Like I need to prove to myself I don't care.

"I tore open my knuckles again," he says.

I make the mistake of looking at his hands, but my eyes betray me, wandering past them to his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that of course he has.

I swallow. Hard.

"There's a bandages in there." I point to an open bag, desperate to get him out. "Take some."

He doesn't move.

"No," he says, dragging a metal chair from the corner, cutting through this ridiculous tension. He unfolds it, sits, and rests his arm on the tray. "You're the professional, aren't you? You do it."

8

DECLAN

She looks at me, crossing her arms the second I sit down.

"I said take the bandages," she says.

I rest my arm on the tray and lean back in the chair like I've got all fucking day.

"And I said no," I reply. "You do it. It's your job to treat injuries."

Her eyes narrow. "Not yours. Not again. Do it yourself."

There's a paper by her and she snatches it up, scanning whatever's written there like it's the most important document in the world.

"Try not to give me more reasons to want to kill you," I say softly, but she hears it.

She looks up at me, her nostrils flare, and for a second, I think she might actually throw something at me. Instead, she folds up the paper, turns on her heel, and grabs some gloves.