“What happened?” The question came out quiet.
“It’s nothing. I just?—”
“What. Happened?” His eyes snapped up to mine, and the protective fury there stole my breath. His thumb brushed carefully over my wrist, just below the bandage, and the tenderness of the gesture clashed so violently with the storm in his expression that I couldn’t form words.
“Did someone do this to you?”
The raw concern in his voice, the way his hands held mine like I was something precious and breakable, sent my heart into overdrive for an entirely different reason than before.
And I realized, staring up into those blazing blue eyes, that Axel wasn’t just dangerous to my sanity.
He was dangerous to every wall I’d ever built.
7
HE’S CLEANING MY WOUND AND CASUALLY THREATENING TO WHAT NOW? #REDFLAGORMARRIAGEMATERIAL
DAKOTA
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to tug my wrist free.
But Axel didn’t let go. Didn’t even acknowledge my protest. He just started walking, practically dragging me down the hallway toward his bathroom, his grip firm but careful around my injury.
“Axel, it’s barely bleeding. Most people wouldn’t even have noticed?—”
“I’m not most people.” He pushed open the bathroom door and guided me inside with a hand on my lower back that sent an unwanted jolt down my spine.
The bathroom was all dark tile and brushed nickel fixtures. Masculine. Clean. Almost aggressively impersonal. No photos, no clutter, nothing that said anyone actually lived here. The air was still humid from his shower, warm and close, carrying that Sandalwood scent that was distinctly him.
The shower. Jesus. Minutes ago, he’d been naked in this very room, water running over?—
I shook the thought away as he released me, dropping to one knee to open the cabinet under the sink.
I blinked at what I saw. Everything had a place. First aid kit front and center, toiletries lined up with military precision, spare towels folded in perfect thirds. Not the chaotic jumble of half-empty bottles and forgotten products I’d expected from a bachelor. Not many people had probably seen under Axel Pierce’s bathroom sink; it felt strangely intimate, this glimpse of how he organized his private space. How he kept everything controlled, contained.
He emerged with the first aid kit and slapped it onto the counter with enough force to make the contents rattle, the sharp sound echoing off the tile.
“You know, this is completely unnecessary. It’s just a scratch.”
“A scratch that made you gasp in pain.” His jaw was still tight, that muscle jumping again beneath the stubble. “I’ll ask one more time. Did someone do that to you?”
The intensity in his voice made my stomach flip. “Yes.”
His eyes flared, something dangerous sparking in their depths.
I rolled mine. “Me. I did it to myself.”
He stared at me for a long moment, those sapphire eyes searching my face like he was trying to detect any hint of a lie. Then he exhaled roughly and ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it in a way that should not have been attractive but absolutely was.
“How?” The word came out clipped.
“Um, a board. I was helping my mom with something.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept watching me with that unnerving focus while he moved to the sink and turned on the water. I tried not to stare at the tattoos that decorated his forearms. The ink shifted and flexed as he lathered antibacterialsoap between his palms, washing with the kind of methodical care that suggested he was trying to calm himself down.
God, those hands. Long fingers. Strong but elegant. The same hands that had caged me against the desk, that had traced my jaw with devastating gentleness.
The same hands that had held me like I might break.
