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(edited)
____ B L A K E
He saved me; Connor—the supposed cold-hearted deviant hunter. I was still in disbelief, hardly able to wrap my head around the situation. The last thing I could remember was him finding me on the rooftop of the Stratford Tower and me asking for help. I never actually thought he would, though. I honestly expected him to turn me over to the Detroit Police. Instead, he took me a motel. . . ?
I looked around, pressing my palm to my temple. I was still weak from blood loss. I felt like my insides had been replaced with stones, weighing me down. It was similar to the motel I had stayed at: queen-sized bed, wooden bedside tables, a circular table, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, relatively modern kitchenette, and a cramped bathroom. Connor had walked into the kitchen, standing with his back turned to me.
I squeezed my eyes shut as pain snaked its way up my thigh. Connor had cleaned my wound, wrapping my leg in white gauze. The bleeding had stopped, as far as I could tell. That's good. I blew out a breath and ran my hands through my hair, detangling the knots that had formed.
'How long have I been out?' I asked, calling to Connor in the kitchen.
'Three hours,' he replied flatly.
'Won't your partner be worried?'
Connor walked over to me, carrying a steaming mug of dark liquid. 'How do you know Hank?' he questioned, handing me the drink before taking a seat on the stool beside the bed.
I cupped the mug, the heat warming my frost-bitten fingertips. I stared down into the black cesspool, grimacing at my warped appearance. I looked awful, to say the least; paper-white skin, dark shadows under my eyes, and red teeth-bitten lips. 'Lieutenant Anderson was the police officer who pulled me from the wreckage all those years ago,' I explained, taking a sip of the drink Connor had made me. 'I recognised him from one of the news broadcasts they played on TV.'
'Oh. . .'
I smiled, humoured by his expression. Suddenly, I found myself admiring him. Like the way the light reflected in his rich brown eyes, or the way a few strands of hair fell over his forehead—even the little flick at the end of his eyebrow.
