Page 85 of Sweet Obsession

And I let him.

“Because of you,” I whispered, my grip tightening on his coat.

Then I saw it. His shoulder was bleeding. Not deep, but enough to soak through the fabric of his shirt, a dark stain spreading across the cotton like a shadow, stark against the paleness of his skin.

“You’re hurt,” I whispered, my heart skipping a beat at the sight.

Misha barely flinched, his gaze never wavering as he wiped the blood from his hand. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice low, casual. He turned away from me, as if to downplay it, but the blood was a stark contrast to the calm he tried to project.

“No,” I insisted, stepping closer, my voice a little sharper than I intended. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, his jaw clenching, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable that made him pause just long enough for me to close the distance between us. Slowly, I reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal the wound.

The sight of it, raw and bleeding, the small, dark puncture in his skin, made my stomach lurch. But it wasn’t just the injury that hit me. It was the fact that he didn’t want to show weakness. The fact that, in a moment like this, he still tried to protect me from the truth.

“It’s not that bad,” he murmured, his breath shaky now, a slight tremor in his hand as he pulled back.

I didn’t care. I pressed my fingers to the wound, a touch softer than I intended, and he sucked in a breath, his eyes narrowing in warning, but not pulling away.

“You’re still bleeding,” I said quietly, my voice thick with a mix of concern and something deeper. “And you won’t let me help you.”

Misha’s gaze flicked to mine, and for the first time, I didn’t want to fight him. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve lived with worse.”

“I know,” I replied, my voice soft. “But I still care.”

His eyes softened, and for a brief second, his guard was down, vulnerability etched into the hard planes of his face. Then, just as quickly, he masked it again, the wall rising between us once more.

“Then help me,” he said, his voice almost a command, but there was something different about it this time. A quiet plea.

I nodded, my fingers trembling as I pressed the fabric of his shirt back into place. “I will.”

I nodded, glancing around the room for something, anything to help stop the bleeding. The safehouse was sparse, but therewas a cupboard on the far wall. I crossed the room quickly, rifling through it until I found a small first-aid kit, then turned back to Misha, who was standing, stiff, still trying to mask the pain.

“Sit down,” I ordered, my tone more demanding now. It was clear he wasn’t going to take care of this on his own, and I was done waiting.

He gave me a hard look but obeyed, lowering himself onto the old, cracked chair in the corner.

I moved quickly, wiping away the blood with a damp cloth, my hands shaking slightly as I worked. The wound wasn’t deep, but it needed pressure. I wrapped a gauze bandage tightly around his shoulder, my fingers brushing against his skin with each movement. He flinched, but didn’t speak, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes on the floor.

“Stay still,” I murmured, the urgency in my voice more than I meant it to be. The tension between us was palpable, the vulnerability of this moment hanging heavy.

When I finished, I pressed the bandage down one final time, looking up at him. “You’re going to be okay,” I said, more to convince myself than him.

Misha didn’t respond immediately. He just sat there, his face hard, his eyes guarded. Then, with a grunt of effort, he stood, testing the weight on his shoulder. The pain was clearly there, but he hid it well.

“Thanks,” he muttered after a long pause, his voice rough.

I nodded, wiping my hands on my pants, not sure what to say next. The silence between us was thick now, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... real.

“You shouldn’t go out there again without a doctor,” I said, breaking the silence with practical concern. “I can find someone. A local... or someone we trust.”

“We’ll take care of it later,” he said, his tone firm.

I took a step back, giving him space while making a mental note to find a proper doctor before the day was done. “We need to get out of here before the rest of them show up.”

“Agreed,” he replied.