Chapter 74: Madeline
Reid leans forward slightly, that same unreadable look in his eyes, while Jake closes the notebook with a soft thud.
“Let us look,” Reid says again, his voice low but leaving no room for argument.
I sigh, because really—what am I going to do? Run for the door? Take on both of them in some kind of fencing match? Not exactly a winning strategy.
So I shrug off my jacket, muttering something about it really not being a big deal—
But when I glance back at them, both of their expressions have shifted. Hard.
Their jaws tighten, eyes darkening in perfect, synchronized anger.
“What?” I ask, but they don’t answer.
Then I follow their gaze.
A small red stain has bled through the sleeve of my grey henley, right over the bandage. My stomach drops. I didn’t even feel it hurting that bad until now, and suddenly I do—an ache pulsing under my skin, slow and deep.
“Oh,” I whisper.
For a second, the sight of the blood makes me dizzy. The room tilts just slightly, enough for me to steady myself on the edge of the table and look away.
“I should go home,” I say, forcing a shaky breath. “Take care of that.”
“No,” they both say at once.
The single word freezes me.
Jake speaks first. “Finn and Liam have no medical training. Charlie neither. And Sloane—” He hesitates, clearly searching for a diplomatic way to say we don’t trust her to patch you up.
Reid crosses his arms, gaze steady. “We’ve got some training. We can fix the stitches.”
My eyes flick between them, heart thudding. I remember Jake’s hands on me that day on the boat—his calm voice, how gentle he was. I shouldn’t feel safer with them than anyone else, but I do.
I let out another sigh, resigned. “I can’t win this one, can I?”
Reid’s mouth twitches into the smallest, most aggravating smirk. “Fast learner.”
The words hit me with déjà vu—he’d said almost the same thing the first week I met him, back at the diner.
Then he pushes off the table and says, “Come.”
I glance at Jake for confirmation, and he just nods once.
So I follow Reid—my pulse too fast, my arm throbbing—as we head toward the kitchen.
The kitchen feels different from the one I live in—
Simpler. Warmer. Still wood everywhere, but cleaner lines, fewer things cluttering the counters. Everything has a place. Everything smells faintly like soap and salt.
It’s so them.
Reid crouches by one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a heavy black medical kit. When he stands, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and goes to wash his hands in the sink.
And, okay—his forearms are ridiculous.
All sinew and veins and quiet strength, muscles flexing under skin as he rubs his hands together under the water. They’re probably as big as my biceps, which is… mildly unfair. How does someone even get forearms like that?
I tear my gaze away before he turns around and catches me staring.
When he dries his hands, he glances at me. “I’m gonna lift your sleeve,” he says quietly, voice more careful than usual. “Need to see how bad it is.”
I nod, swallowing. “Okay.”
He reaches for my arm, his fingers warm where they brush my skin, and slowly rolls the fabric up past the soaked bandage.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I glance down—and immediately wish I hadn’t. The white gauze is smeared red again, streaking further up my sleeve than I thought. The sight makes my stomach twist, the edges of the room blur a little.
Before I can stumble back, his hand catches my other arm, steadying me. “Hey,” he says, voice sharper. “You scared of blood?”
“Apparently,” I mumble, trying to blink the dizziness away.
Jake walks in right then, taking one look and letting out his own quiet curse. His frown deepens when he sees my face. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m fine,” I try to say, but Reid’s already moving.
Without a word, he sets both his hands on my waist and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
“Wait—” I gasp, instinctively grabbing his shoulders, but he’s already placing me on the counter, steady and sure.
“Easier to work like this,” he says simply, stepping between my knees to get a better angle on my arm.
My heart’s doing this completely unhelpful pounding thing in my chest, and I try not to notice the warmth of his hands lingering at my hips—or the way his breath brushes my jaw when he leans in to look closer.
Reid’s hands are steady—too steady—as he starts peeling the bandage back, one edge at a time.
The pull of the dried gauze stings, but honestly, I can’t even tell what hurts more—the throb in my arm, or the heat curling low in my stomach from how close he is.
His breath skims my cheek every few seconds. His arm brushes my knee when he leans in. I swear if I moved half an inch, I’d be able to feel the warmth of him against my skin.
And I should not be thinking about that. Not with my arm bleeding. Not with his brother right there. Not with my boss literally cleaning my wound.
If he knew I was having thoughts like this about him, I’d be fired before lunch.
The last of the bandage comes free, and he exhales, quiet but rough, looking over the cut. His jaw tightens again, but he doesn’t say anything.
Jake steps in then, sleeves rolled too torturing me further, bottle of antiseptic in one hand. He sanitizes his fingers and takes the other side of my arm while Reid steadies it, both of them working silently, efficiently.
They barely talk, but it’s clear they don’t have to—each small glance between them says everything. Reid nods once; Jake passes a swab. Jake gestures slightly; Reid shifts his hold.
Their coordination is ridiculous. Intense. Too much.
The air feels heavy, filled with the sound of soft breathing and the occasional scrape of metal from the kit.
My pulse is wild. My face feels hot enough to melt through the counter.
And somewhere between the antiseptic sting and the brush of their hands, I realize I might actually lose my mind if they both keep standing this close.