She slowly opened her eyes to find Christopher gaping at her from behind Jared, his eyes wide with fear. Jared shook her again. “You okay?”

“My arm.” She couldn’t keep herself from crying any longer. Tears fell in hot streaks down her dirty face.

Jared looked down and then squeezed his own eyes. “Christopher, she’s bleeding really bad.”

“Oh man, oh man, I told you we shouldn’t bring her. Now we’re gonna get in trouble.”

Jared stayed focused on Aly. “Can you walk home?”

Aly vehemently shook her head. Her whole body hurt.

Jared scooped her up in his arms, kind of like he’d done with the wood, but a lot gentler. “Come on, Aly. Let’s get you fixed up.”

She clung to him while he carried her home. He was breathing all funny and hard by the time he closed the toilet seat and set her down on it. He wet a washcloth under water and kneeled in front of her. It was cold when he pressed it to her arm. She jerked a little because it stung.

“I hate blood,” he mumbled as he cleaned her arm.

Christopher rummaged through the medicine cabinet. “Here.” He shoved a box of bandages at Jared.

Jared carefully peeled back the wrapper and placed it on her cut.

He let out a breath, then smiled up at her as he ruffled a hand through her hair. “All better?”

She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “All better.”

Aleena

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the shadows as they climbed along my ceiling, listening to the peace outside my window. It was late. I’d gotten off work after eleven o’clock tonight, my pockets filled with tips from the busy evening. Apprehension had fluttered in my stomach when I returned to the apartment. The night had been still, the trees seeming frozen in time as I stepped from my car. Fear had clamored through my chest when I thought perhaps Jared had run, come back to the apartment in the middle of the day while I was gone and packed up his belongings, and turned his back on the things he didn’t want to face.

But when I opened the door to the silence of the apartment, I’d found Jared’s bag still shoved in the corner of the room, and I was struck with a deep relief that eclipsed the flickers of anger I’d felt throughout the day.

I couldn’t stand to leave things between us the way they’d been this morning.

After a shower to wash away the grime from the greasy kitchen, I’d crawled in bed with my sketch pad and allowed my thoughts to drift. I’d captured images, each time feeling I was close to touching on something beautiful, but in every stroke I saw my own imperfection. I’d drawn until my eyes had sagged with exhaustion and I’d finally set the pad aside.

But I couldn’t find sleep.

Hours passed, and now I stared.

Waited.

I rose to my elbows when I heard the apartment door whine open. Craning my ear, I listened, trying to discern the footsteps. They were subdued, but even then, I could tell they were too heavy to be Christopher’s.

Muted sounds leaked into my room. I rolled from bed, quieting my feet as I crossed the room. I slowly turned the knob, cringing with the slight creak it gave, and carefully pulled it open. Tiptoeing, I edged along the hall.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the sound so quiet I wouldn’t have heard it at all had I not had my back pressed to the wall, straining to listen.

Desperation filled the air, a tension that slipped along the floor, beckoning me forward.

He came into view as I peeked into the kitchen. Everything was dark except for the bright light coming from the freezer where he stood with his back to me. He was fumbling for something inside. His movements seemed sluggish, although he kept shaking his head with these harsh motions, disgust pouring from him. He wrestled with a cheap blue ice cube tray, twisting it over the sink. Ice cubes shot out in a flurry. Half clattered into the sink and the rest hit the floor. His shoulders slumped as pressed his hands onto the counter to hold himself up, his head hanging low. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.

Tentatively, I found my way around the bar. I sidled up to him, nudging him back a step. “Here, let me help you.”

He jerked with surprise before he twisted his head farther away and moved aside, standing there like a scolded child. He wouldn’t even look at me.

My gaze swept over the counter. He had a towel out, and ice cubes littered the bottom of the sink.

“Are you hurt?” I asked quietly, keeping my voice even, training my attention on piling ice cubes in the towel to make a compress. I glanced over my shoulder to catch the horrified expression on his face when he looked up.

I froze, wide-eyed.

That beautiful face was filthy, and his eyes were achingly sad. Pain twisted me in its fingers, wringing me from the inside. He looked like absolute death. His white printed tee was in tatters, smeared with dirt and oil, hanging from his body at odd angles from where it had been stretched and deformed. I stifled a gasp when I saw his bloodied hands. Gashes were opened on each knuckle, the torn skin filled with rocks and rimmed in dirt.

His hands were a complete mess.

I squeezed my eyes shut as realization hit me hard.

It wasn’t just his hands. It was Jared Holt who was the mess.

“Come here,” I whispered, reaching out to take his hand.

He backed away. “I can take care of myself, Aly. Just go back to bed.” This time, there was no anger in his words, just defeat.

I shook my head. “Are you sure, Jared? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

He blinked as if he was trying to make sense of what I’d just said.

“Now come here and let me help you.” I offered him my hand. He seemed reluctant, wavering in indecision, before he finally placed his palm against mine. A thrill slithered along my skin. For a second, I remained still, relishing the slight connection. I lifted my gaze to him, and he was looking at me as if maybe the feel of my skin caused him pain.

“Come on.” I led him out into the living room to the couch. “Sit.”

Reluctantly he obeyed, and he sank to the edge of the couch. A heavy groan rumbled in his chest when he did. He dropped his head, his injured fingers gripping at the back of his neck.

“I’ll be right back.” I rushed into the kitchen, gathered the pieces of ice melting on the floor, and tossed them into the sink. I got a fresh towel and ran it under some cool water, wringing it out before I made my way back to him. He glanced up at me. All the belligerent hostility from this morning had vanished. Shame had taken its place.

This was the boy I’d found in the pages of the sketchbook I’d retrieved this morning.

I lowered myself onto my knees in front of him, my movements slow and calculated as I reached out to lightly tug at one of his forearms, never looking away from the haunted blue eyes that stared down at me. Again he flinched at my touch, a sharp gush of air rushing from his nose, before he relaxed and allowed me to bring his hand down onto his lap.

A little blood still oozed from the wounds, but it had mostly dried. I placed the towel on his hands. “Here, hold this and try to stop the bleeding. We need to get this cleaned up so it doesn’t get infected.”

I was a little surprised when he agreed with a quiet “Okay.”

I hurried to the bathroom, where I dug through the cabinet under the sink for the first-aid kit. Taking a second for myself in the sanctuary of the bathroom, I focused on quieting the rush of feelings igniting my senses in a way they should not. I was smart enough to recognize when I was on dangerous ground.

Everything about him was dangerous. Just as dangerous as he was beautiful.

I’d witnessed firsthand the destruction that was Jared Holt.

But there was no chance I could stay away.