“Why?” I asked, more to distract myself from the direction of my thoughts than anything else.
“Why what?” He dried his hands on a towel, movements controlled. Precise.
“Why do you care if someone hurt me?”
Axel opened the first aid kit without looking at me. “Because if someone hurt you, that would have been the end of him.”
The casual violence in his tone shouldn’t have sent heat pooling low in my belly. It really shouldn’t have.
But it did.
“You’re serious,” I breathed.
“Completely.” He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. “Now give me your hand.”
I hesitated, suddenly aware that letting him touch me again felt dangerous for reasons that had nothing to do with the cut.
“Dakota.” My name was a command. A plea. “Please.”
That single word—please—coming from Axel’s mouth, undid something in me. I extended my hand slowly, watching as he took my wrist with a gentleness that seemed impossible from someone so clearly furious.
His fingers were warm against my skin as he carefully peeled away the bandage. The adhesive pulled slightly, and I bit my lip against the sting.
“Sorry,” he murmured, and the unexpected apology made my heart do something stupid in my chest.
When the bandage came free, he studied the cut with an intensity that made me feel exposed. It wasn’t that bad, honestly. A clean slice across my palm, less than two inches long.
His fingers tightened around the discarded bandage, crumpling it into a tight ball. “We should call Blake to look at this.”
Blake was an ER doctor who tended to actual life-threatening injuries. “It’s a scratch,” I protested.
His ocean-colored gaze snapped to mine. “How many bandages have you bled through?”
“Two, but only because I didn’t let it clot properly. See?” I tried to sound dismissive. “It’s not bleeding anymore. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Just a flesh wound,” he repeated flatly. Then, before I could argue further, he turned on the tap and guided my hand under the water.
The spray hit the cut, and I hissed softly. Axel’s thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. Once, twice, in silent apology, and I forgot how to breathe.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said quietly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He worked in silence, one hand cradling mine while the other carefully cleaned around the wound. The antibacterial soap stung, but I barely noticed. I was too focused on the furrow between his brows, the way his lips pressed together in concentration, the surprising tenderness in every movement.
No one had ever taken care of me like this. Like I was something precious. Like my pain mattered.
“Why are you being so …”Nice. Kind.“Careful?”
His hands stilled for a moment. “Would you prefer I be rough?”
“I’d prefer you be consistent.” I tried to inject some levity into my tone, but it came out softer than intended. “Five minutes ago,you were tearing apart my entire life philosophy. Now you’re playing doctor.”
“Maybe I contain multitudes.”
“Or maybe you’re just confusing.”
He pressed his lips together like he was fighting back a grin. “Probably that.”
