We were on the last few glasses when Caelan asked, too casually: “Are you seeing anyone?”
My hand slipped.
The glass cracked against the edge of the sink and shattered. A shard sliced across my fingertip, and pain lanced through my hand. Blood welled immediately, bright red, surprisingly fast.
“Shit...” I pulled my hand back, cradling it against my chest.
Caelan moved so fast I barely registered it. One second he was beside me, the next he was in front of me, taking my wrist in his hand, turning my palm up to examine the damage. His eyes had gone strange, darker, almost amber at the edges, and there was a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Let me see.” His voice was different, rougher.
“It’s fine, it’s just a...”
“Riley.” My name in his mouth, stern and worried. “Let me see.”
Before I could protest further, his hands were on my waist and he was lifting me like I weighed nothing, and setting me on the counter. I was so startled I didn’t even resist. Just sat there, legs dangling, while he cupped my injured hand as if it were made of glass. The physical contact sent my heart racing in my chest, my skin tingling with awareness. I bit my lip, trying to keep my face expressionless.
“First aid kit,” he muttered, looking around the kitchen with wild eyes. “Where... there has to be...” He started opening cabinets, slamming drawers. “Humans keep these things somewhere...”
I blinked. Humans?
“Caelan.”
He wasn’t listening. He’d found the cabinet under the sink and was pulling everything out, dish soap, cleaning supplies, spare sponges, tossing them aside like they personally offended him.
“Caelan.”
“I need herbs. Bandages. Something to stop the...” He emerged triumphantly with a white box, holding it up like a trophy. “Found it.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. He looked genuinely distressed over a cut that was maybe half an inch long. I’d had paper cuts worse than this.
“My hero,” I said dryly.
“Mock me all you want.” He positioned himself between my knees, and I could feel the warmth of him through my jeans, close enough to make my breath catch. “You’re still bleeding.”
He opened the first aid kit and pulled out antiseptic with hands that weren’t quite steady.
“This might sting,” he murmured, dabbing at my fingertip.
It did sting. I didn’t care. I was too focused on how close he was, on the furrow between his brows. On the way his thumb stroked absently across my palm as he worked. On the fact that he was standing between my knees and neither of us was pretending that was normal.
“You’re very intense about first aid,” I said, trying to break the tension.
“You’re very casual about bleeding.” He wrapped the bandage around my finger with surprising gentleness. “It’s concerning.”
“It’s a tiny cut.”
“It’s your blood.” He looked up at me, and his eyes were still darker than usual, still holding that amber edge. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
He was so close I could see individual striations in his gray eyes and feel his breath on my face. I could smell him, clean and warm, making me want to lean closer.
He finished bandaging my finger, not letting go of my hand once. And then our eyes met, and the very air changed. He started leaning in, slowly, like he was giving me time to pull away. Hisfree hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips trailing fire across my cheek.
I didn’t pull away. Hell, I wasn’t even breathing. I didn’t think about Damien or trust issues or the thousand reasons this was probably a terrible idea. Suddenly, I wanted to kiss him so bad.
His lips were an inch from mine. Half an inch. I could feel the warmth of him, could almost taste...
“Hey, lovebirds.”
