I can see a red spot on her camisole where she's pressing her hand. Without asking permission, I lift the fabric and see two distinct marks—one that looks like a cut from Ronan's knife and a large bruise on her hip.
"It's nothing. I'm fine," she says, pulling her shirt down and trying to step around me.
She reaches for a glass again. "Ow!" she exclaims, doubling over slightly.
I grab a glass and set it on the counter. "Sit," I command, pointing to the stool at the island.
She rolls her eyes. "Can you not order me around for one day?"
I point to the chair again and she reluctantly sits. I retrieve the first aid kit from under her kitchen sink and wash my hands thoroughly.
Kneeling in front of her, I ask, "May I?" before moving to lift her shirt.
She pulls it up herself and I examine the cut. It's not deep but it's longer than I'd like. I pour antiseptic onto a cotton ball and gently clean the area. She winces but doesn't complain otherwise.
I place a bandage over the cut and find myself tracing my fingers over it gently. Relief floods through me that it wasn't worse. When I look up, she's watching me with an expression I've never seen before. Vulnerable. Open. My fingers continue moving over her skin like they have a mind of their own.
She places her hand over mine. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
The air between us feels charged. Electric. Her breathing has changed—shallower, faster. I can see her pulse jumping at her throat. My hand is still on her bare skin and hers is covering it and I should move but I can't seem to make myself.
"Marco..." Her voice is barely a whisper.
I pull my hand away and stand abruptly. Walk to the freezer and grab an ice pack. I need to put distance between us before I do something monumentally stupid.
I kneel in front of her again and press the ice pack against the bruise on her hip, keeping my eyes on the injury instead of her face.
"I like you on your knees before me," she says.
My eyes snap up to hers. There's that gleam again. The one that gets me in trouble.
"Don't get used to it." I place her hand over the ice pack to hold it in position. "This is a one-time offer."
"Everything's a one-time offer with you." She shifts on the stool and winces. "Until it isn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You said I was just a job. That lasted what, twelve hours before you were breaking into Irish taverns to save me?"
I stand and cross my arms. "That was the job. Keeping you alive."
"Right. The job." She slides off the stool carefully. Tests her weight on the injured hip. "Is that why your hands were shaking when you bandaged me up?"
"They weren't?—"
"They were." She takes a step toward me. "And just now when you were touching me, that wasn't very professional either."
I should shut this down. Should remind her of all the reasons this can't happen. But she's standing there in her thin camisole with her hair messy from sleep and her eyes still a little red from crying and all I can think about is how badly I wanted to kill Ronan for putting his hands on her.
"Go to bed, Elena."
"That's it? Go to bed?" She laughs but there's no humor in it. "You save my life, patch me up, look at me like... like that, and then just dismiss me?"
"Like what?"
"Like you give a damn." She shakes her head. "Never mind. Forget it."
She turns toward her bedroom. I watch her go. Watch her favor her injured side. Watch her reach for the doorframe to steady herself.
