He turned off the water and reached for a fresh, clean towel, patting my hand dry with the same maddening gentleness. His fingers lingered against my skin longer than necessary, and when I looked up, I found him already watching me.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something real. Something that explained why he’d gone from disgusted by my curated life to furious that I was hurt. Something that would make sense of the way he was looking at me right now, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve but desperately wanted to.
Instead, he cleared his throat and reached for the antibiotic ointment.
“This might sting,” he warned.
It did, but barely. I was too distracted by the feel of his fingertip spreading the cream across my palm, the warmth of his other hand still cradling my wrist, the way he bent slightly closer to see better.
He applied the bandage with the same careful precision, smoothing down the edges, checking twice that it was secure. Then he just … held my hand. His thumb traced an absent pattern across my wrist, right where my pulse hammered against his skin.
“There,” he said finally, but he didn’t let go.
Neither did I.
We stood there in the quiet bathroom, his hand wrapped around mine, both of us breathing a little too fast. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his gaze drifting to my mouth.
This was dangerous. This moment, this man, the way my entire body was leaning toward him like he had his own gravitational pull.
Don’t,I warned myself.Don’t read into this.
“Why are you doing this?” The question came out more defensive than I intended.
He blinked, and something shuttered in his expression. His hand loosened around mine, and I felt the loss of his warmth like a physical ache.
“You’re Knox’s little sister.” He stepped back to throw away the old bandage and used supplies. “If you’re hurt on my watch, I’m going to take care of it.”
The words landed like ice water dumping over the fire of a teenage fantasy.
Knox’s little sister.
Right. Of course. That’s all this was. An obligation. A responsibility he’d shouldered because of my brother, not because of me.
I’d known that. I knew that. So, why did hearing him say it out loud feel like something sharp twisting between my ribs?
Because for a second there—with his thumb tracing patterns on my wrist, with the way he’d looked at me—I’d been stupid enough to let my guard slip. To almost believe this intensity, this care, had something to do with Dakota and not just Knox’s little sister, who’d gotten herself hurt on his watch.
God, I was an idiot.
“Right,” I managed, pulling my hand back and cradling it against my chest. My newly bandaged, carefully tended, obligatory hand. “Of course. Knox.”
I turned toward the door before the humiliation could fully register on my face.
“Dakota—”
“Thanks for the bandage,” I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded despite the tightness in my throat. “I should get ready for tonight.”
I left the bathroom before he could say anything else. Before I could do something truly pathetic.
Like ask him why he’d touched me so carefully if I was just a responsibility.
Why he’d looked at me like that if this was only about Knox.
Why I’d been dangerously close to believing, just for one stupid moment, that maybe I was more than an obligation to him.
8
WHEN I BASICALLY FAKED AN ORGASM OVER DESSERT. THEN HE KISSED ME LIKE HE KNEW. #KISSEDBYTHEDEVIL
