Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone. I don’t call Yasmin. I don’t call my mom.
I call Bastian.
He answers on the first ring. “Eliana?”
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just—” My voice breaks. “I fell. On the sidewalk. It’s stupid, I’m fine, I just?—”
“Where are you?”
I tell him the intersection.
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
“Bastian, you don’t have to?—”
“Stay. There,” he orders. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
38
ELIANA
ten·der·iz·e: /met 'tend??riz?/: verb
1: to break down tough muscle fibers in meat.
2: what the sidewalk just did to your knee and palms; also, what him carrying you to his penthouse does to your last bits of restraint.
Seven minutes after he told me he’d be here in ten, he pulls up.
I’m still plopped on my ass on the cold concrete, cataloging my injuries in order ofHow bad is this gonna hurt in the shower, when Bastian’s Range Rover doesn’t so much park as abandon itself at the curb. There’s a screech of tires. The driver’s door flies open before the engine cuts.
Then he’s running.
I’ve never seen him run before, but I’m not surprised that he does it well. Huge, graceful strides that chew up ground until he’s here.
He drops to his knees in front of me hard enough that it has to hurt, though his face shows no sign of it. “Let me see.”
I hold out my palms. They’re scratched up, embedded with grit, stinging like I’ve been stuck with a cattle prod. Not bleeding too much, but they look worse than they feel.
Bastian’s hands shake when he takes mine.
I blink. Why would he care enough for that to be happening? I’m nothing to him. A fun little distraction at best; an employee who’s never quite understand the limits of her role at worst. But to make himshake? Tremble?He doesn’t care about me like that. He can’t.
But right now, there’s no denying that I can see his fingers tremble as he turns my palms over. I can see the individual muscles jumping in his jaw.
“It’s not that bad?—”
“Your knee.” He’s not listening to me. His eyes are wild, scanning me like he’s looking for something worse, something catastrophic I might be hiding for reasons unknown.
I extend my leg. My leggings are ripped, the fabric torn in a jagged line. Underneath, my knee is already puffy and beginning to purple. It throbs in time with my heartbeat.
Bastian curses under his breath. His hand hovers, as if he’s afraid he might hurt me more. When those fingers finally do make contact, they’re light as a feather, more tender than I ever thought possible.
“Can you stand?”
