“That’s too damn bad, sweetheart, because you aren’t getting one.” The endearment doesn’t hit its mark and I wouldn’t want to be hissweetheartanyway.
“You did this for a reason, and I want to know what that reason is.”
“Sometimes there isn’t a reason, Saint. Sometimes people do things and they don’t know why.” His gaze darts to my wrist, the one cuffed to the bed. “Now do you think you could shut your mouth for five minutes? I need to check that wound and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.”
What’s it matter if I hurt myself? Why does he care at all what happens to me?
“You don’t need to check anything.”
“Saint—”
“No. I don’t want your help.” I press my back against the headboard, and lift my other hand to bat him away. It’s useless since he could easily overpower me if he wanted to but it’s the only way I can fight back. I don’t want his kindness. I don’t want anything to do with him. “You don’t get to hurt me, and then pretend you care about what happens to me.”
His jaw clenches. “Use your head. You’re bleeding.”
“Good. I don’t care.”
“Well I do.” And just like that, he’s on me. I try to scramble away but there’s nowhere to go, the chain jerks, stopping me, biting into my tender flesh.
“No! Don’t—” The protest dies when his hand closes around my wrist—the injured one. His grip is gentle despite his size, and it’s the touch of his warm calloused hand that makes every nerveending in my body seize up. His fingers, the heat of his skin. It feels nice, and I hate it.
My pulse thrums against his fingers, frantic, and traitorous, revealing a truth I won’t say aloud. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Like a doctor, he examines the raw, bleeding skin with clinical interest. “This is going to get worse if you don’t stop pulling against the cuff.”
I don’t respond. The proximity of his body is overwhelming my nervous system. His scent, the same cedar and leather smell that clings to the cotton shirt I’m wearing, mixed with something clean, like soap makes me dizzy. I try to avert my gaze but it’s hard when he’s right there. This close, I can see the individual whiskers of stubble along his jaw, and the way his dark lashes frame those cold blue eyes.He’s beautiful.Or I guess he would be beautiful if he weren’t such a monster.
“I’m going to clean your wrist,” he says, still holding it carefully. “And put some antibiotic ointment on it. Are you going to let me do it or are you going to fight me?”
I don’t understand why he’s asking for my permission. He’s going to do it whether I agree or not. Stupidly, my brain finds the smallest bit of comfort in the fact that he’s asking me, like my permission matters to him, which makes no sense, but then again. None of this makes much sense to me.
“Just do it,” I whisper.
He releases my wrist slowly, straightening with deliberate ease.
When he turns, my blood cools at the sight of the bag I hadn’t noticed he brought with him. I keep my eyes locked on him out of caution while he unzips it and pulls out a first-aid kit—a nice one, not the cheap kind from the drugstore. Returning to my side, he sets it on the bed, opens it, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and ointment.
“Warning you now, this is going to sting,” he announces, his gaze burning into mine.
I can only nod. The feel of his warm breath fanning against my skin makes it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s a killer. A moment later, he cleans the raw wound, and I’m unable to stop myself from flinching. Fire pricks at my skin, and I grit my teeth against the pain to stop from crying out.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I’ve shown enough weakness.
Despite my flinching, his touch remains gentle, his movements sure. It makes me wonder how many times he’s done this? Does he hurt people and patch them up often?
Get a grip, Saint.
I have no reason to care what he does or doesn’t do. He’s a murderer, and the second I forget that little fact is the second I’m dead.
After wrapping my wrist with bandaging tape, he packs up the first-aid kit. The room is silent, and quiet only heightens my anxiety.
What happens now?
I’m tempted to ask again, but at the same time, I don’t want to know.
Turning his back to me, he moves toward the small kitchen area. I watch him warily, my newly bandaged wrist resting in my lap. Back at the bag, he pulls more items out—bread, sandwich meat, cheese, and a few more water bottles.
I’m thrilled to see real food, not just protein bars. Without missing a beat, he assembles a sandwich, and brings it over, setting it beside me on the bed.
