A tectonic movement in terrain I thought was solid and mapped occurs. I care what happens to her. Not because she’s mine, not because she’s useful, not because of what she can do for me.
Just because she’s Sadie.
The thought of her being hurt awakened a visceral protectiveness. I hadn’t just been afraid of losing my property. I’d been afraid of losingher.
I try to find the edges of this feeling, to contain and categorize it. But it refuses to be neatly labeled and shelved away. It’s messy, inconvenient, and dangerous.
“Landon?” Her voice pulls me back to the present. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down at my arm, noticing the cut is deeper than I’d realized. “It’s nothing.”
She steps closer, concern evident in her expression. “We should get that cleaned before it gets infected,” she says, tearing a strip from her already ruined dress to wrap around my arm.
I let her tend to me, watching her face as she works. My chest tightens with an emotion I can no longer deny.
I care about Sadie Reynolds. And that terrifies me more than any threat Orlov could have made.
45
SADIE
The penthouse is eerily quiet after the chaos of the garden. Blood has dried in rusty patterns on my emerald dress. I don’t care. All I can think about is Landon sitting on the edge of his bathroom counter, jaw clenched as I examine the knife wound on his arm.
“You need stitches,” I say. “I can’t fix it with butterfly bandages.”
Landon shakes his head. “Just clean it and wrap it. I’ve had worse.”
The first aid kit he directed me to is more comprehensive than anything I’ve seen outside a hospital. I find antiseptics, gauze, suture kits, and prescription-strength painkillers. This isn’t a kit for occasional cuts—it’s prepared for serious injuries.
“How often do you get stabbed?” I ask, keeping my tone light as I clean around the wound. The gash is deep, at least four inches long across his forearm.
Landon doesn’t even flinch when I apply the antiseptic. “Often enough to be prepared.”
His eyes haven’t left my face since we returned. I feel his gaze sweeping over me while I work.The weight of his stare is almost palpable.
“You shouldn’t have intervened,” he says suddenly. “Orlov could have killed you.”
I pause, cotton pad hovering over his skin. “He was about to kill you.”
“I would have handled it.”
“Really? Because from where I was standing, you were about to get your throat cut.”
The memory flashes vividly—Orlov’s knife arcing toward Landon’s neck, the split-second decision to move, to act, to protect. I hadn’t thought; I’d simply reacted.
“Why did you do it?” Landon asks. “After everything I’ve done to you. Why risk your life for mine?”
I don’t have an answer that makes sense, so I ignore the question, pressing a clean gauze pad against the wound.
“Hold this,” I instruct, guiding his hand to the gauze. “I need to get the bandage ready.”
I unwind a length of bandage, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions within. Everything about tonight feels surreal—the charity gala, Jolene’s kidnapping, the gunfight, and now this intimate moment as I tend to Landon’s wounds.
“You first,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “You put yourself between me and Orlov’s men. You positioned yourself as a human shield.” My voice catches. “Why would you do that? You could have been killed.”
He looks away, his shoulders tense as I begin wrapping the bandage around his arm.
“Hold still,” I murmur, leaning closer. The scent of his cologne mingles with sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
