He strode across the loft, boots quiet against the floor, heart knocking a little harder than before. Just leftover adrenaline, he told himself. Not the sight of Rick’s blood, hot, red, real. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of Rick’s suit jacket being shrugged off, the thud of the holster hitting the counter. After that, silence, except for the soft creak of a stool under a heavy body.
Ash rummaged through the cabinet. Alcohol. Gauze. Old painkillers. Under the sink, he found a half-empty tin of bandages held together with expired courage. He returned with the supplies—and stopped cold in the shadow of the kitchen.
Rick sat by the counter, spine angled partway from the light. The Colt and holster lay on the granite like a sleeping viper. His tie had been stripped off and tossed aside, his suspenders hung loose around his waist. One hand worked at the last buttons of his shirt, collar streaked with dried blood, mouth set in agrimace. He peeled the shirt off, carefully, stiffly, baring a ribbed white A-shirt stretched tight across a body built for punishment.
Ash’s breath caught.
Bathed in light and shadow, Rick resembled something carved from old oak and bad temper. Six-five, broad as a wrecking crew, forged like a man who carried the weight of the world and still found time to lift. The sweat-darkened tank clung to him, drawing the eye to the defined muscle, the taut lines, the narrow waist that made his upper half seem even more massive. Thick arms, bull neck, shoulders like fault lines. Skin dusted with dark hair, enough to make him feel wild. Raw. Inescapable.
Ash didn’t usually go for the square-jawed, clean-cut, righteous type. But there was something about this one that made his stomach twist and flip in ways he didn’t want to admit. Next to him, other men seemed unfinished. He couldn’t help but stare.
Rick glanced up, catching him. “You gonna gawk or play nurse?”
Ash stepped forward. “If I start charging by the hour, you’d go broke.”
“Well, you’re out of my price range anyway.” With a wince, Rick dragged the A-shirt over his head, the motion wringing a grunt from him.
Ash had to summon every ounce of willpower not to stare again. Rick’s chest was a brutal masterpiece, broad, furred, monumental. He set the supplies on the counter and stepped between Rick’s parted thighs, so close their bodies nearly brushed, as he bent to examine the wound. The bullet had pierced the meaty slope just above Rick’s clavicle—clean in, messy out. But the bleeding had stopped, and the surrounding skin was beginning to dull. The edges didn’t gape. There was no heat, no swelling, none of the trauma that should’ve been there. Almost like… it was already healing.
He frowned.
“Told you it was nothing,” Rick said, nodding to the wound like it was a bee sting. As if he were trying to downplay it. “Only tore the flesh a bit on the way out.”
Ash decided to play along. But inside, he began to wonder if there was more to this man than met the eye. If that was why his gaze held steady. Why Ash couldn’t reach inside him andtwist. “You should still go to a hospital,” he said, unscrewing the antiseptic. He kept his tone casual, but his mind wouldn’t let it go. Now he knew he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. “Get a tetanus shot. Rabies booster. Psych eval.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’re lucky it missed anything important.”
“You were luckier.” Rick’s voice was rough. “Somehow, you didn’t get shot at all. Even by two professional assassins. At close range.”
Ash averted his eyes, suddenly nervous under that suspicious gaze. He soaked a cotton pad in alcohol and leaned in. “This is gonna sting.”
A huff of breath. “What in life doesn’t?”
Ash pressed the gauze to the wound.
Rick flinched, grunting when it touched raw flesh.
“Sorry,” Ash murmured, fighting a smile and trying to sound like he meant it.
He worked methodically, dabbing around the wound, cleaning blood. His fingers brushed Rick’s chest, grazing soft hair and corded muscle. He was hyper-aware of the man’s size, the way he dwarfed everything, even while seated, including Ash. Rick’s scent filled the air—gunpowder and aftershave, sweat and something primal. Unequivocally male. The kind of scent that burrows under your skin and stays there.
Rick didn’t speak. Just stared at him, lips parted, breath shallow.
Ash felt the weight of that stare—felt it too sharply—until Rick finally broke it, his gaze sweeping the loft the way cops do when they’re taking inventory, noting every trinket as if it might be a clue.
“Didn’t know you played,” he muttered, nodding at the piano, his tone barely above a rumble.
Ash unwrapped a strip of gauze. “You don’t know many things about me.”
Silence settled again, heavier now. His hands stayed steady despite the thudding in his chest. Every brush of knuckle on skin struck a match. He felt Rick twitch under his touch, the man’s grip on the counter whitening his knuckles.
“You good?” Ash asked.
No answer at first. Then, hoarse: “I’m fine.”
The quiet grew too thick to ignore. Rick’s heat radiated in waves, his breath uneven. Banter would’ve helped, filled the space, masked the static. But it had dried up, leaving only this—this lull, this buzz in the air, louder than words. The tension that had always hovered now seethed, too close to pretend away. Every glance was a challenge. Every breath, a dare.
