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.”
“But not for you.”
“I learned to fight because I had to. And every bruise, it only makes me stronger. That’s how I got to be where I am. That’s how I survived.”
I swallow hard, hearing what he’s saying between the lines. Someone hurt him. Someone hit him as a child. “I’m sorry.”
His voice gentles. “You understand about that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“We’re not so different, you and I.”
“The bruises didn’t make me stronger.”
He shakes his head. “Not stronger with big muscles. With this thick head that no one can bash in, even though so many motherfuckers have tried. You’re strong in ways I can only imagine. Surviving on your own, with your daughter.”
I turn my face away. “Surviving. That’s not strength.”
His rough hand turns my chin toward him again. “Surviving is the only thing that matters. And you are strong as fuck. Understand me, little bird? No matter how many times someone puts a cage around you, you never forget how to fly.”
Both Luca and I were hurt when we were young. He turned hard and coarse. I turned meek. These were our survival strategies, and they stayed with us long after our abusers had gone.
My eyes burn hot with tears. But I don’t want to cry, not now. Not when I feel the stirrings of hope after so long. I’ve always believed in Delilah, that she can have a real future, a better life. But it’s been a long time since I believed in me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me,” he says roughly. “I don’t want your gratitude.”
And he doesn’t want my bandages. “Get used to it.”
His laugh fills the room. “And you aren’t strong. You know how many people talk to me like that? You’re a goddamn army of one.”
My cheeks flush under his praise. And under his intense gaze.
Only now do I realize how close we are. We had to be when I was tending his wounds. Now I’m standing a foot away from him for no reason at all. This close I can see the ring of darker green around the center of his eyes. I can see the scar that bisects his eyebrow, one that looks centuries old, from a different lifetime.
I know that being with Luca won’t be anything like what happened in Harmony Hills.
Is Candy right about that? I want to believe her.
I want to find out for myself.
“Luca,” I whisper.
His lids seem lower now, half-mast across his green eyes. He’s breathing harder, more than when I put rubbing alcohol against his open wounds. “Little bird.”
And I know that he went crazy when you disappeared.