It would hurt her. That’s what made him bite his tongue. Knowing how deeply Logan disparaged her would spear her through her fragile heart. He did not want to be the one to hurt her like that.
Rising to his feet, he chucked his handful of broken ceramic in the trash, and he grabbed an errant hair tie from the little counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He circled her, breaking more bits of plate beneath the soles of his shoes.
“What are you—” She ended the sentence with a soft gasp as he dragged his finger tips over the back of her neck, gathering up her fine hair.
“It’s getting dirty,” he rumbled, twisting it into a bun at the base of her neck. He secured the loose shape with the hair tie, fussing with it a little longer than he needed to, using the excuse to touch her to his advantage.
The look she gave him when he was finished was soft and made his mechanical heart feel warm.
She reached back with her free hand and touched the bun, mouth pulling in a small smile. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”
Impulsively, he cupped her cheek, strumming his thumb over her smooth skin. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away—at least, not until she heard the bathroom door open.
Then she reeled back from him in a panic.
“Ah!” She sat back on her heels, opening her hand as the iron tang of blood filled the air.
In her anxiety, it seemed she’d forgotten about her handful of sharp ceramic, tightening her fingers around it. The red-stained pieces fell to the ground with a musical tinkle.
“You are hurt,” he said sharply, snatching her hand up.
Blood dribbled from several cuts in her palm and fingers.
“You’re lucky you didn’t slice a tendon. That was careless.”
“Stop scolding me,” she hissed, darting a glance at the bedroom where Logan was rummaging around.
He yanked the tea towel off the oven handle and wrapped it around her palm. Before she could protest, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her off the ground, lest she find some other way to cut herself on the wreckage of his temper.
“Put me down!” she whispered, squirming.
He pinched her flank, enjoying the appalled sound she made as she stiffened in his arms. He set her down on the couch as she glowered at him.
“Where is your first aid kit?” he asked.
“Under the bathroom sink,” she muttered. Her face was bright red, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Stay here.” He crossed into the bedroom, where Logan was ruffling his hair with a towel as he studied himself in the full-length mirror.
“Hey,” Logan whispered, turning to face Thirty-One. “Come here.”
Thirty-One wanted to refuse, but if he did, Logan would immediately be aware of the new flaw in his programming. Bitterly, he crossed the room to stand before his coder.
Logan’s eyes darted toward the open door and back. “Did she let you touch her while I was gone?”
That was what he wanted to know? Thirty-One fought the urge to ask why that was his first question. Ophelia had been in emotional distress since he’d abandoned her, and all he wasconcerned about was whether or not she’d permitted Thirty-One to have sex with her.
“Only briefly,” Thirty-One said. “We did not have intercourse.”
Logan deflated, scrubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. He was despairing, not jealous. Strange. His cuckold fetish had a stranglehold on him if he was truly so dismayed to know his fiancée hadn’t slept with another man—insofar as Thirty-Onewasa man, anyway.
“But she let you touch her… You think you’re wearing her down?”
Go fuck yourself.He’d learned that phrase listening to the Automata employees speak to each other. Now it lingered on the very tip of his tongue.
He forced himself to answer truthfully. “Yes.”
Logan blew out a relieved breath, clapping Thirty-One on the shoulder. “Good. That’s good. Keep it up, okay?”
