The bathroom door closed behind me. Lock clicked.
Pressed my back against it, squeezed my lids shut.
What the hell are you doing, Clare? He’s an amnesiac fugitive. You’re committing felonies. This is the worst possible time to lust after someone who might be a killer.
My fingers were still shaking.
And this time, not from the cold.
Chapter 8
Clare
The dangerous warmth in my chest had nothing to do with the space heater glowing in the corner.
Xavier slept. Really slept. Not the fitful unconsciousness of fever and trauma, but actual rest, chest rising and falling in deep, steady rhythm. The constant tension in his face had smoothed away. Since I’d dragged him inside, he’d been coiled tight. Always ready. Always on edge.
Not now.
I reached toward his forehead. Just checking for fever.
Bullshit.
I wanted to smooth the dark blond hair back, trace the line of his jaw, feel the warmth of skin under my palm. Territorial satisfaction settled in, his fever had broken on my watch. He was healing. Faster than should be possible, but I wasn’t questioning miracles.
Pulled back before contact. Shoved the offending appendage in my lap instead.
This isn’t clinical anymore, Clare. Hasn’t been for a while.
The IV bag hung nearly empty beside the bed. Time to remove it. Routine medical care. Nothing more.
Shifted closer, reaching for his arm. The moment my fingers made contact, everything in me settled and sparked simultaneously. Warm. Alive. Healing.
Professional motions betrayed by hyperawareness. Pulse under my fingertips, steady and strong. The muscle of his forearm solid beneath my palm as I stabilized the IV site.
As I peeled back the tape carefully, he stirred.
“Morning.” Too aware of him watching. “Fever’s gone. You’re healing. Hurray.”
Slow acknowledgment.
A flush crept up my neck.
Focus on the IV, genius. Not on how he tracks every movement. Not on yesterday’s unfinished tension simmering between us.
Withdrew the catheter smoothly, applied pressure with gauze. His other arm came up, covered mine.
Breath caught.
“You’re okay.” Steadier than I felt. “You’re doing better than okay. Vitals are good. Wounds are closing. You have an amazing recovery power, I admit. A few more days and you’ll be...”
Mobile enough to leave.
The thought landed wrong. Unsettled my chest in ways I didn’t want to examine.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Once. The touch deliberate, conscious. Then he released me.
Pulled away. Busied myself disposing of the IV supplies, avoiding his stare. “I’ll make breakfast. You need to eat. Build strength.”
