To the Ends of the Earth (Stripped 5)

I star

e at the plain white door as if the answers are embedded in wood. What would they tell me, if walls could talk? Would they say that he’s a dangerous man, made more unstable by a day of violence? I would never consider knocking if Leader Allen were on the other side of that door. Rice feels uncomfortable for the first thirty seconds—and agony for the next twenty minutes. He could have whipped me bloody and it wouldn’t have hurt more. I feel the echo of that torment on my shins.

Then I remember the haunted look in Luca’s eyes. He has his own echoes.

His own torment.

My insides feel like they’re made of liquid, quivering inside me as I approach the door. I raise my fist, trembling with trepidation, fighting back a lifetime of conditioning.

It’s the memory of him holding me in my apartment that overcomes the pain of rice under my knees. He could have done anything to me that night. Hurt me. Used me. I couldn’t have said no. I wouldn’t have said no with Delilah’s safety on the line. And all he did was hold me.

I knock.

Seconds pass with every heavy beat of my pulse. It thuds in my eardrums, louder than the silence that answers me. Is he asleep? Still in the shower?

Or what if his injuries are worse than anyone realized?

He might have a concussion, collapsed on the hotel floor. Or worse, he could have fallen in the shower, slipped from dizziness and exhaustion. I did this to him. I broke him.

Frantic, I turn the latch and push open the door.

He’s lying on the bed, one arm slung over his eyes. There’s blood staining his body, his sheets, the same as when he walked into the room. He hasn’t showered. All he’s done is take off his shirt and shoes. He’s only wearing his sweatpants as he reclines on the bed.

He glances at me, eyes glassy. “Something wrong?”

“Oh God, you’re hurt.” I whirl and grab the first-aid kit from the mini bar, along with fresh towels and bottled water. He needs more than gauze. He probably needs a doctor, but as long as he’s still conscious, he’ll never agree to one.

He’s scowling when I run back to his room. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” I set the kit on the nightstand and dig through the bandages. “Can I call someone? The front desk probably has the name of a doctor. Or maybe Colin will—”

He makes a rough sound. “I’m not fucking dying, you know.”

I flinch, holding a packet of alcohol swabs. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes close, revealing how much pain he’s in. “Fuck, I’m the one who’s sorry. Bandage me, do whatever you want as long as you stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going to hit you.”

I turn away from him, breathing deep. I hadn’t meant to reveal that much. Maybe he didn’t mean to reveal that much either. “I’m just going to clean up your cuts,” I say, my voice even. “It’s the least I can do considering you’re fighting for me.”

There’s a rustle of fabric as he sits up. “Go ahead.”

When I face him again, I try not to meet his eyes. Instead I focus on the little squares of fabric to clean out his cuts. Fresh blood spills from the wounds, so I work efficiently to cover them with bandages. The white hotel sheets are already smeared with blood, but I want him to start healing.

There’s a particularly bad bruise on his arm. It’s bright red now, with red petals radiating out. The flower shape is one I recognize. “That one’s deep,” I say.

He narrows his eyes. “How do you know?”

Because I had my own flower bruises. “Isn’t this intense for training so close to the main fight? Won’t you be weaker with these cuts and bruises?”

His laugh is unsteady. “If cuts and bruises made me weaker, I’d be dead right now. Guys like me, they make me stronger. Colin understands that.”

There’s only a little bit of tape left, and I make a note to call down to the front desk for more tomorrow morning. “Make me understand.”

He looks away, his eyes distant. As if he’s looking into the past. “Some guys, they fight for sport. They train every day and drink protein shakes. It’s like basketball, only bloodier.”