Damage

Chapter 13

I've seen plenty of injuries. Some my own, some belonging to people I love. And I've seen my mother have to treat injuries (some bad, some worse) countless times. But still, something about seeing the blood drip from the cut by Luke's eye makes my stomach turn.

Luke was the clear winner of the fight, but he hasn't come out completely unscathed. The cuts and bruises that were on his knuckles, even before tonight, have split back open and his shirt is covered in blood, most of it belonging to someone else.

I can't tell if that's a bad or good thing.

While we drove, every time I closed my eyes, I couldn't get the sound of bones snapping at the sickening crunch of Luke's fist colliding with Aaron's nose out of my head

The penthouse Luke lives in is just as pristine and lavish as I remember - a stark contrast to the bloodstained boy in front of me, dressed in all black and recently having almost beat a man to death.

For me.

Luke pulls off his top, wincing with the motion and balls up the dark fabric, attempting to press it to the cut near his eyebrow and swearing at what's probably a stinging sensation.

"Fuck," he hisses, pulling away from the cut harshly. "Fucking rings. I hate them."

"Let me help," I offer, following him into the large and bright kitchen.

"No, it's fine." He stubbornly refuses, standing in the middle of the kitchen, shirtless, and gingerly trying to press the shirt to his temple. I can only imagine the cuts and bruises and wounds that Aaron has to tend to. The thought alone makes me shudder.

"Luke," I start, taking the shirt from his hands. I've learned enough from my mother to know what to do in a situation like this.

I turn on the sink; letting the black shirt run under it and watching Aaron's blood mix with the cold water before flowing down the porcelain basin. Luke slips on another black shirt as I wring the old one in my hands, getting rid of the excess water before sitting on the countertop.

"Come here," I mutter and Luke hesitates for a moment before separating my thighs and taking his place between them. It's an incredibly intimate position, but something about sitting atop kitchen counter with Luke standing between my legs feels comfortable - nice, even.

But still, my breathing hitches and I blink before tenderly pressing the balled-up, wet t-shirt against the 2-inch cut running my his temple, still bleeding.

Luke's hand rests beside me, leaning down so I can easily reach him, but when I increase the pressure a little bit to stop the bleeding, he grabs onto the fabric of my dress.

"Shit," he swears, his bloodied hands gripping onto my waist as an outlet for the pain, bending his head down and burying it into my neck, without thought.

His hold onto my waist as well as his face buried by my neck nearly makes me gasp, but I hold the wet t-shirt there for maybe 20 seconds, hoping the pressure will stop the bleeding. It's not deep enough to need stitches, but it sure is deep enough to hurt. Aaron's ring must have caught onto Luke's temple while they were fighting.

"Sorry," Luke raises his head back up and releases his tense grip on my waist and mutters a quick apology. The blood on his hands is now on me, his hands having bunched up the fabric and marking the pale pink cloth of my new dress.

"Do you have any type of ointment, or antibiotic cream?" I ask softly, looking up at him from our position.

"Yeah, yeah, there's Neosporin in the cabinet," he lazily points to it beside my leg, so familiar to him. Does he have to bandage wounds often?