Stranger's Blood
914 Words
I took one furious step toward him, ready to… I didn’t know. Swing a lamp? Bite him? Cry?
My sleep-deprived brain had no plan.
It didn’t matter.
Because he took a half-step back—
And his eyes rolled up.
The terrifying predator folded like a cut string.
He collapsed forward.
Straight into me.
His weight hit my chest, solid muscle and sheer mass. I staggered, arms wrapping around him on instinct to keep us both from crashing.
My hand slid across his back.
Warm.
Wet.
Blood.
We went down anyway.
I hit the floor first.
Then he landed on top of me.
The air whooshed out of my lungs.
“—Okay,” I wheezed, face mashed against carpet. “This is fine. Totally fine. Just a normal Thursday night in hell.”
I shoved at him.
He didn’t budge.
Either he was built out of granite, or I was powered by noodles.
His head rested near my shoulder. Hair damp. Smelled faintly like pine and rain.
For one stupid second, it didn’t feel like danger.
It felt… quiet.
Like he’d finally stopped fighting something I couldn’t see.
Reality slapped me.
Stranger.
Bleeding.
In my house.
I wriggled free, half crawling, half scooting, then crouched beside him.
His breathing was steady but shallow.
The kind that makes your stomach twist.
The blood stain on his shirt was ugly.
Great.
The one time a gorgeous man falls on me, he’s leaking.
No power.
No ambulance call.
No phone.
No landline, because I’m not eighty.
I looked around again.
Near the door lay a duffel bag. His.
I grabbed it and unzipped.
Please be a first aid kit. Or a phone. Or snacks. I was not picky.
Inside: folded black shirts, a hoodie, a notebook—
And paperwork.
I pulled it out and squinted in moonlight.
Property Transfer: Whitmore Residence.
Seller: Catherine Whitmore.
Buyer: Kaen Lyall.
My chest went heavy.
Not shock, exactly.
More like a deep, exhausted sigh.
“Oh, Catherine,” I whispered. “What did you trade my life for this time?”
It wasn’t malice.
It was her.
Beautiful, chaotic, perpetually convinced the universe would tidy up after her.
And I was always the one left holding the broom.
This house was my last real asset.
My last safety net.
And she’d sold it.
I slid the papers back into the duffel and rubbed my forehead until my eyes ached.
Fine.
Another mess.
At least this one came with a very distracting complication.
A rough exhale snapped my attention back.
Kaen’s fingers twitched. His jaw tightened. A tremor ran through his shoulders.
“Hey—hey,” I said quickly, voice low like you can negotiate with death. “Don’t die on me. I cannot have a corpse in here. Not happening.”
His chest rose.
Once.
Shallow.
Then held a second too long.
My own lungs panicked.
“Okay,” I whispered, backing away on my hands. “Love this for me.”
I made it to the doorway before I froze.
If he dies, I’m the one who has to explain it.
If he wakes up and leaves, he takes the contract.
If he wakes up and stays… I get murdered in my own house. Cool.
I stood there, stuck, for ten seconds that felt like ten years.
“Fine,” I muttered, spinning back. “If you turn into a ghost, I’m charging you rent, so stay alive.”
I approached him again.
His breathing had evened out.
Up. Down.
Still alive.
Relief hit so hard my knees went weak.
“Good,” I whispered. “Stay that way.”
And then—because I am an i***t with a conscience—I tried to move him.
“Okay, big guy. Up we go.”
I hooked my arms under his, braced my feet, and dragged.
He didn’t move.
At all.
“You could at least levitate,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “I won’t judge.”
Through cursing, adrenaline, and sheer disrespect for physics, I managed to haul him onto the edge of the bed.
He slumped there, half on, half off, like an expensive rug with abandonment issues.
I wiped sweat from my forehead.
“One crisis at a time,” I told myself. “You’re doing great.”
Then he moved.
A sharp inhale.
A shift—fast.
His arm shot out, locked around my waist, and gravity flipped.
I landed on the mattress with a soft thump, breath punched out of me again—
Kaen’s entire body pressed against mine.
For one frozen heartbeat, I didn’t move.
His face was buried near my neck.
His breath was hot and uneven.
His hand at my waist wasn’t tight.
It was… possessive in a lazy, unconscious way.
Like even passed out, he had an opinion about me leaving.
“Great,” I whispered to the ceiling. “New record for rock bottom.”
Outside, the full moon hung fat and bright, pouring silver across his back.
The blood stain had stopped spreading.
He looked dead.
Not dead-dead.
Just… too still. Too heavy. Too comfortable.
I tried to push him off.
Nothing.
I tried to slide out.
He shifted—automatic, tactical—pinning me again without waking.
I stared at the ceiling, trapped under six feet of unconscious disaster.
My last coherent thought, right before exhaustion slammed into me, was simple:
“Well.
At least it’s not a corpse lying on top of me.”
- Writer
