@untamed-good-ole-boy || Sentence starters
Of course it was blood. Delilah might have been inexperienced in many ways but she recognised the unique pattern, colour and even smell of the crimson fluid when she saw it. Half angered about his denial – or lie? – half concerned about what had happened to him or what reason he had to keep it from her, she pulled at his sleeve to sit her husband down, her expression everything but amused. Brows cast in a deep furrow, keen eyes on his skin to detect the source of his bleeding, she merely huffed, cupping his chin firmly in her freckled hand to turn his head left, then right, unsuccessful in her endeavour to find a wound. “That´s impossible,” she mumbled under her breath, “but wait here, I´ll fetch something to clean you. But don´t you move.” Voice stern she pointed at him and rushed away to the kitchen for a bowl of warm water and washcloth. The redhead refused to let the servants do this for her, too important the matter, besides from the notion that it was her purpose to take care of her spouse.
After returning just as quickly and with the same exact expression, placing water and cloth on the small table next to them, she sat back down, wetted the cloth and dabbed his face carefully, the baked splatters across his neck needing more attention and a firmer pressure to give in to her removal. “You´re not hurt, I see…” she said but resumed to cleaning him quietly and hoping he´d understand it as his cue to confess. But no such luck. Johnathon remained silent. “Nothing to say? Fine.” Once done cleaning, she picked the used items back up to carry them away again. “Maybe you should lay down or something. You look unwell.” It was her honest advice on the way out.
Thoughts turned and tumbled in her mind on her way back to the kitchen when a small trail of blood on the marble floor caught her attention, its dark droplets building a thin but clear line from the cellar door down the hall and to her feet. She followed it, curiously and afraid at the same time, and stopped at the heavy locked wooden door that lead below the castle, when a bloody handprint forced a gasp out of her lungs and another one opon the view of a second one on the heavy iron handle. What was he hiding down there?
