Oyizamsii

OYIZAMSII

The big guy, Alejandro, steps into the room, but doesn't seem to want to come near me. "Are you okay?"

"Fuck you," I shout, as I sit up and press my non-injured hand to my bloody one to try and stop the bleeding. It's not the worst I've had, but shit, it hurt…yeah, hurt. I cross my legs to stop myself from thinking about that other confusing…no, fuck that.

Dropping my eyes to my hands to avoid his too bright, all-seeing gaze, I prod at the cut. The crazy bastard opened it up again. It's not too deep, it doesn't need stitches—I got good at realising what does and doesn't need sutures after getting hurt every day. This one will heal, probably leaving another scar to add to my collection.

I jerk back when I raise my eyes and realise the big guy is crouched before me, his dark gaze locked on me, his black hair falling across his forehead in an oddly endearing way as he reaches for my hand. "May I?" he murmurs, but I keep it clutched to my chest, and he sighs. "I won't hurt you. I'm used to fixing cuts, bruises, and breaks."

"I bet you are," I snap, and his eyebrow rises.

"Not in that way, you should really avoid Black though. He isn't like…us. He'll hurt you for fun," he warns softly, his tattooed knuckles clenching. He's so big, his hands must be bigger than my head. He could snap me in two and hurt me so easily. Yet he doesn't…why?

"Oh, avoid him? That didn't fucking occur to me, and how would you like me to avoid him when I'm in a locked room, and the crazy bastard breaks in and stares at me while I sleep?" I huff.

His lips twitch, and he nods at my cut again. "Let me at least clean it and wrap it. How's your lip?" he questions, his big thumb coming up and prodding at my sore lip. I freeze as he strokes his thumb across it, his eyes scrutinising and clinical. Cold. Like he isn't affected, like his touch isn't doing strange fucking things to me.

Things I have no business feeling when I'm his prisoner.

He nods. "It's not busted too badly, it will heal." He releases my lips and takes my hand gently, turning it to regard the cut before standing so quickly I jolt back—a habit, a habit I thought I'd broken. He sees it, of course he does, but doesn't comment. "Let me get a kit."

He leaves the room for a moment, and I scramble to my feet to run after him and escape, but he shuts the door and locks it. The bastard. Pacing, snarling, and swearing under my breath, I wait for him to return. There is no way I can take this big guy. I'm good, but I'm not that good. Plus, I've seen his scarred knuckles and crooked nose, which has been broken too many times, so I know he's a fighter. By the fluid way he moves for such a big guy, I would guess a boxer.

The door unlocks, and he comes back in with a first aid kit. He gestures for me to sit on the bed, so I do, hoping if I'm good, I can lull them into a false sense of security. He kneels down and cleans the cut, ignoring me completely.

"What will happen to my bar?" I demand. I love that place. It's my home, the only place I ever belonged, and I worked my ass off to keep it alive after…

"We locked it up, it will stay closed for now," he offers, uncaring about my questions or anger as he wraps my hand back up and stands. "You should get some sleep."