The Morning After

There was blood on Jameson’s neck, on his chest. It took me a moment to realize that most of it was dry and another small eternity, during which time seemed to stand still, to see the source: a deep cut at the point where his collarbone dipped in the front, right at the base of his neck.

I surged forward, and as my hands went to the sides of Jameson’s neck, I realized that although the deepest part of the cut was small, longer red lines traced his collarbone on either side, shallow cuts that gave his wound an almost triangular shape.

Someone did this to you. I couldn’t speak. The only thing that could make a cut like that was a blade wielded by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

A knife? The thought of someone holding a knife to Jameson’s neck—that close to his carotid arteries—sent a chill down my spine. My voice still trapped in my throat, I skimmed my hands gingerly down his neck to just above the cut. I stared at the delicate rivulets of dried blood on his chest, and then I noticed his shirt.

When Jameson had disappeared, he’d been wearing a button-up shirt, but now, the top four buttons were gone—cut off ?—exposing the skin underneath.

“Jameson.” I’d never in my life said a word that urgently.

“I know, Heiress.” His voice was low and hoarse, but he managed a rakish smile. “Bleeding is a good look for me.”

Jameson was Jameson, always.

The pace of my heartbeat evened out. I opened my mouth to ask Jameson where the hell he had been and what the hell had happened to him, but before I could get a single word out, I realized…

He smelled like smoke. Like fire. And his shirt was smudged with ash.