• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“So soon,” he breathed, his eyes closing. It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a lament. The muscles in his arms tightened and his shoulders were stiff.

“OW!” he shouted; it had gotten so still in the room that I jumped a foot in the air at his outburst.

His right hand had curled into a tense fist around the blade of the knife — he unclenched his hand and the knife clattered onto the counter. Across his palm was a long, deep gash. The blood streamed down his fingers and dripped on the floor.

“Damn it! Ouch!” he complained.

My head spun and my stomach rolled. I clung to the countertop with one hand, took a deep breath through my mouth, and forced myself to get a grip so that I could take care of him.

“Oh, no, Jacob! Oh, crap! Here, wrap this around it!” I shoved the dish towel at him, reaching for his hand. He shrugged away from me.

“It’s nothing, Bella, don’t worry about it.”

The room started to shimmer a little around the edges.

I took another deep breath. “Don’t worry?! You sliced your hand open!”

He ignored the dish towel I pushed at him. He put his hand under the faucet and let the water wash over the wound. The water ran red. My head whirled.

“Bella,” he said.

I looked away from the wound, up to his face. He was frowning, but his expression was calm.

“What?”

“You look like you’re going to pass out, and you’re biting your lip off. Stop it. Relax. Breathe. I’m fine.”

I inhaled through my mouth and removed my teeth from my lower lip. “Don’t be brave.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go. I’ll drive you to the ER.” I was pretty sure I would be okay to drive. The walls were holding steady now, at least.

“Not necessary.” Jake turned off the water and took the towel from my hand. He twisted it loosely around his palm.

“Wait,” I protested. “Let me look at it.” I clutched the counter more firmly, to hold myself upright if the wound made me woozy again.

“Do you have a medical degree that you never told me about?”

“Just give me the chance to decide whether or not I’m going to throw a fit over taking you to the hospital.”

He made a face of mock horror. “Please, not a fit!”

“If you don’t let me see your hand, a fit is guaranteed.”

He inhaled deeply, and then let out a gusty sigh. “Fine.”

He unwound the towel and, when I reached out to take the cloth, he laid his hand in mine.

It took me a few seconds. I even flipped his hand over, though I was sure he’d cut his palm. I turned his hand back up, finally realizing that the angry pink, puckered line was all that was left of his wound.

“But . . . you were bleeding . . . so much.”

He pulled his hand back, his eyes steady and somber on mine.

“I heal fast.”

“I’ll say,” I mouthed.

I’d seen the long gash clearly, seen the blood that flowed into the sink. The rust-and-salt smell of it had almost pulled me under. It should have needed stitches. It should have taken days to scab over and then weeks to fade into the shiny pink scar that marked his skin now.

He screwed his mouth up into half a smile and thumped his fist once against his chest. “Werewolf, remember?”

His eyes held mine for an immeasurable moment.

“Right,” I finally said.

He laughed at my expression. “I told you this. You saw Paul’s scar.”

I shook my head to clear it. “It’s a little different, seeing the action sequence firsthand.”

I kneeled down and dug the bleach out of the cabinet under the sink. Then I poured some on a dusting rag and started scrubbing the floor. The burning scent of the bleach cleared the last of the dizziness from my head.

“Let me clean up,” Jacob said.

“I got this. Throw that towel in the wash, will you?”

When I was sure the floor smelled of nothing but bleach, I got up and rinsed the right side of the sink with bleach, too. Then I went to the laundry closet beside the pantry, and poured a cupful into the washing machine before starting it. Jacob watched me with a disapproving look on his face.

“Do you have obsessive-compulsive disorder?” he asked when I was done.

Huh. Maybe.