Ignoring my own wound, I turn to his far more worrying one. Blood stains his skin, engulfing the shoulder underneath. The sight has me suddenly swallowing my rage, seeing a shade of red that has nothing to do with the blood running down his skin. He’s hurt. And I hate it. That realization might just anger me more. Because it is then that I understand just how terribly I will hurt anyone who dares hurt him.
