He gave me just enough room to maneuver the shirt from his back and get it off. I tried to not to stare, but it was nearly impossible not to.
The man wasfine.
He had the body of a warrior. His skin was so taut over every muscle, they created valleys and peaks, the veins roads. It was like a map to battle grounds.
His stomach rippled in the firelight, and so did two tattoos that started below the belt and reached his ribs. Stag antlers. In Celtic culture the stag represented the power of the other world—the realm of the dead. It also stood for the wildness of nature, how untamed it was.
The stag, inthisrealm, was powerful, agile, elegant even, and sexually…it had stamina.
The last one—stamina—seemed to flow through his veins like plasma. He seemed to emit a masculinity that made the woman in me respond in ways I wasn’t used to. My insides seemed to swell, and it felt like my skin was suddenly too tight. The fire felt like it was blistering me.
I was starting to get overheated.
It wasn’t only me.
A glistening bead of sweat ran from Cian’s throat down his chest. I had to tame down the urge to follow its trail and dry it with my finger. Maybe if things had been good between us, I would have acted on impulse and done it. But cold awkwardness lingered between us, and hot anger lurked in the depths of his eyes.
I forced my eyes to the wound on his shoulder. It had bled over, and rivulets of blood ran down his arm and dried to his skin. The wound had clotted too. It looked like some kind of weapon had probably grazed him.
“It doesn’t look bad,” I whispered. “You were lucky. It’s too far away from your heart.”
He grunted, like lucky was the last thing he was. I sighed and went to the caddy with all the medical supplies. The wound needed to be cleaned. I grabbed some sterile cleaning strips and liquid antibiotic ointment. I noticed items for sutures but decided if he needed those, I’d call for Keenan.
I didn’t think so, though. The wound had clotted on its own.
Cian’s stare was on my face as I moved closer to dab the soaked cloth against his skin. A tendril of my hair fell and skimmed his face at the same time my fingers brushed his shoulder. Even though my skin felt hot, his was even hotter. and my fingers were cold in comparison.
He almost convulsed at my touch. A mixture between a painful and pleasurable noise escaped his mouth. Goosebumps puckered his skin.
Taking a slow breath, I dabbed the cloth over the wound. His hand gripped the chair like a paw with claws, and he flung the glass of whiskey at the fireplace. It went up in a ball of fire. A growl erupted from his chest. He glared at me.
I glared back, about to set my hands on my hips, prepared to chew him out. But in a lightning quick move, he moved my arms away from my body.
It took me a second to understand what he wanted. He didn’t want me to touch my dress. Maybe so I wouldn’t stain it with blood?
I pointed the cloth at him instead. “I have to clean it, or it might get infected.” I moved closer to him, dabbing it again. He hissed out a breath but didn’t throw a fit this time. After a few more touches, I cleared my throat. “I didn’t mean to find that…ballroom. We got lost and went through the wrong door.”
He turned his face away, refusing to look at me. I finished cleaning the wound in silence, wrapping his shoulder in bandages until Keenan could properly look at it.
Even though Cian was always quiet, it never felt silent around him. Looking back, it seemed like we had both participated in conversations. In that moment, I heard everything but him—the crackle of the fire, the noises of the castle, even the sound of his breathing.
I walked over to the fireplace and turned to the mantle. An antique portrait done in oils hung above it. Maybe it was of the first owners of the castle.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you. Whatever—” or whoever “—exists in that room is yours, and it wasn’t my right to let it out. It belongs to you.”
He said nothing. He usually acknowledged me in some kind of way. The silence between us was consuming me. A few breaths later, I decided the tension was too thick and started for the door. As my hand touched the handle—
“Maeve.”
I froze.
The voice that had called out to me was almost whispered, raw enough to be bloodied.
“Don’t. Leave. Me.” Each word was punctuated, like he was making sure his words came out right.
I couldn’t move for a few seconds. His voice was deep and so beautiful, it was hard to comprehend it came from the same man who hadn’t talked to me since I first met him. And the way he’d pronounced my name? MAYV. Perfectly and like it was made for his lips… I had to gather the courage to turn and face him. I didn’t want him to see how hard hearing his voice and using it to say my name had affected me, because I didn’t want him to feel self-conscious about it.
Our eyes met.
