Morally Grey

Chapter 21

I see Eros leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.

I relax a little seeing him. But then I remember that I did fucking poison him a few days ago. Whoopsie.

I feel blood dripping down the back of my throat, making me cough. I start to feel light headed as he stands in the doorway, watching me.

I put my hand against the wall to steady me as he storms over to me, fists clenched by his sides.

He pins me up against the wall, in the dark lighting I can barely see his face.

His hand wraps around my neck, his thumbs digging into my wound.

"Where is the-" he begins but cuts himself off as he removes his hand from my neck.

"What the?" He mutters to himself and he feels around the wall for the light switch.

I squint at the lights flick on and he takes a step back, looking at the blood on his hand that was around my neck.

His face twists into a look of hurt for a brief moment, before turning to a look of anger as he walks over to the bed and grabs the first aid kit, walking into the bathroom.

He switches on the bathroom light as he pulls me in.

He puts the lid down on the toilet and sits me on it gently. He looks at me a brief minute, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment before he began looking in the first aid kit.

He pulls out a bottle of antiseptic and cotton pads. He dampens a cotton pad in water from the tap.

He reaches for my hair, gently pulling it to one side,

"So soft," he mutters, twirling a piece of it around his fingers.

He notices me watching him and he clears his throat before gently wiping the blood off my cheek.

He sees the hair tie on my wrist and takes it off me and begins to tie my hair up when he notices the giant, gaping wound on my neck.

"Fuck" he whispers as he stares at me.

Looking into my eyes his hand cups my good cheek.

I push his hand away.

"You had it worse." I remind him about the pain he must have went through from the poison.

"No one gets to hurt you but me," he says fiercely, as he cleans my cheek. Not sure what he meant by that.

His brows furrowed in concentration as he begins to tackle my neck. I wince as the antiseptic stings me.

"Sorry" he mutters as if he is hurting me.

"It's not your fault." I tell him.

"You might need stitches for them," he tells me.

"I know but I can't exactly go to a hospital, they'll ask questions and besides I'm not insured." I confess.

He bandages up my wounds the best he can anyway and I have to admit I was enjoying his touch more than expected.

"Who did this to you?" He finally asks, seriousness plastered across his face.

"Was it the guy from the casino?" He probes further.

"No, I just got myself into a little situation, that's all, did you just try to fucking shoot me?" I realise.

"Yes, now stop changing the subject." He snaps at me.

"I can't help it, I think I have a deep routed psychological issue, embedded in my behavioural patterns from my childhood trauma." I inform him. I'm talking out my ass, telling him something I heard in a TV show once.