She looks up, and her eyes widen the moment they fall on my hand. She shuts her book and straightens.
“Dev… what happened to your hand?”
“Why do you look worried? You should be happy to see me hurt.”
She blinks at me once. Twice. Then her expression shifts, flattening into something blank, guarded, unreadable.
When she still doesn’t reply, I push harder. “What’s wrong? Upset because I am only bleeding and not dead?”
That finally gets a reaction out of her. She stands abruptly and tosses the blanket aside. “Will you stop your nonsense and let me check your hand?”
She steps towards me and reaches for my hand, but I jerk it back instantly.
“Don’t.” I breathe harshly. “You don’t have to bother about a man you don’t care for… a man you hate. I don’t need your fake concern.”
Her eyes snap up to mine. “Dev, you’re bleeding.”
“So?” I spit out. “This is the part where you should be dancing in joy, right? Isn’t this what you want? Me… hurt?”
She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “You really don’t think straight when you’re angry, do you? And right now… you’re doing exactly that, spouting nonsense.”
Before I can respond, she grabs my uninjured wrist and yanks me towards her.
“What the hell do you think you—”
“Sit,” she snaps, shoving me down onto the edge of the bed with a force that steals the rest of my sentence right out of my mouth.
I don’t move. I just watch as she disappears into the bathroom. Drawers bang open, one after another. A few seconds later, she’s back with the medical box in her hand. Without a word, she drops to her knees in front of me.
My heartbeat rockets. The way her brows furrow as she studies my bruised hand, the quiet focus, the raw concern softening her features… Damn. She makes it impossible to keep her at a safe distance from my heart. Dad’s warning echoes in my head:I’ll be my own ruin when it comes to her.
She opens the box and takes out the cotton and ointment. Then she gently takes my hand in hers.
“It’ll burn a little,” she murmurs.
I nod, but don’t admit that the sting is nothing compared to the way my blood heats with desire just from her touch.
When she presses the cotton to my wound, I hiss, my body jerking at the sting.
“Stay still,” she mutters.
“It burns.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
My eyes lock onto hers. “You really hate me that much?”
She tapes a fresh bandage around my knuckles. “Yes.”
“Then why this care?” I demand.
“I am doing this because I am human, not a devil,” she says, tying the last knot with practiced precision. Her fingers brushmy skin—soft, warm, maddening. “Watching someone bleed and walk away isn’t something I can do.”
Then she lifts her chin and meets my eyes.
“And yes,” she adds. “I do want to see you hurt. But that’s something I’ll enjoy only when I am the one causing the pain… not when someone else draws your blood.” She taps my bandaged hand lightly. “That,” she says, “I don’t enjoy.”
Her words make my pulse spike.
