“Yes.”
But the moment he reached for his belt, a low hiss of pain escaped him, his hand pausing mid-motion.
“Stubborn male,” I muttered under my breath. “Just let me.”
“Isara.” This time, my name wasdefinitelya warning.
I ignored him. Stepping closer, I undid his belt, working quickly, efficiently, trying not to let my own flustered thoughts get the better of me. But as I tugged down his pants, one hand brushed against his exposed thigh.
A strangled sound escaped Varyth.
I froze.
“Sorry,” I breathed out.
His hands flexed, his entire body rigid. The silence stretched long enough to be noticeable, long enough to make my pulse spike.
“It’s fine,” he bit out.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the wound, not on the way his muscles tensed beneath my fingers. Not on the way his body had pressed against mine.
This is fine.
This is normal.
This is?—
Gods help me. My fingers brushed against his skin again. I forced out a shaky breath.
“Sit.” I stepped back to give him space.
Varyth hesitated for half a second, then lowered himself back into the chair.
I followed without thinking, settling between his legs, nudging them apart so I could see the wound properly. The gash was high on his inner thigh, deep and angry looking, though it had stopped bleeding.
“A female did this,” I said flatly.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I was trained to do the same.” I glanced up, only to find him staring at me, clearly expecting further explanation.
“I was taught to target males in their more… sensitive areas. It offers a better chance at disabling them. Men tend not to strike like this, given they share the same sensitivity.”
Varyth was silent, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he was surprised or because he had no argument. I didn’t say anything further.
Returning my attention to his leg, I pushed his undershorts up higher to better access the wound.
A string of sounds escaped Varyth’s mouth, perhaps intended to be a sentence, but it certainly didn’t come out as one. His breathing had shifted, his entire posture stiffening beneath my touch.
“Relax,” I said, though my own pulse had the audacity to stumble. “It’s just a wound.”
Varyth sucked in a slow breath through his nose, his grip tightening on the arms of the chair. “You do realise,” he said, the words carrying a feral edge, “you’re the one pushing my shorts up.”
“Well,” I mused, “if it bothers you so much, I could always push them down instead.”
The second the words settled between us, Varythstilled.Completely.
Hisfingers went white-knuckledagainst the chair, his entire body locked in place as if the world had tilted on its axis. His eyes widened fractionally.The tension between us, already tight,snapped taut.
