“Can I see some ID first, though?” I ask. Damon didn’t tell me he was sending someone to my house tonight. In this guy’s defense, I wasn’t even supposed to know that he would be outside my home, keeping an eye on me. I know Damon is only looking out for me, but a shiver runs down my spine.
Zane doesn’t protest. He pulls out his ID out of his wallet. His name and details are printed on the Mars Security badge.
I breathe out, handing the ID back to him. His hair is shorn close to his scalp, the kind of cut that screams discipline. He’sas tall as Damon but broader somehow, his shoulders filling the space like they belong there. And that scar—God, the scar—runs jagged down his face, curving around his cheekbone and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. What happened there?
I clear my throat, setting the kit on the counter and gesturing for him to sit. He lowers himself into one of the wooden chairs. It creaks under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“This might sting,” I warn, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze.
I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re a sharp, piercing blue, as cold as steel and just as unyielding.
He doesn’t flinch when I press the gauze to the scrape along his jaw, but the slight tightening around his eyes gives him away. I keep working, focusing on the rhythm of cleaning and dabbing, anything to keep my hands steady.
Most people would look away by now. Most people wouldn’t know what to do with a man like this, sitting in their kitchen. But I don’t flinch, and that seems to catch him off guard.
“You’re not afraid of me.” It’s not a question. His voice is low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade.
I pause, glancing up at him. “Should I be?”
His lips twitch just a fraction, like he’s debating whether to smile or smirk. “Most people are. The scar usually does the trick.”
I shrug, keeping my hands moving. “I’ve seen worse.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough. Working in an ER has shown me more injuries than I ever wanted to see.
He watches me, his gaze unrelenting, and I wonder what he’s looking for. An answer? A weakness?
“What happened?” I ask softly, nodding toward the scar. The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer right away, his expression unreadable. “Occupational hazard,” he says finally, his tone flat like he’s rehearsed that line a hundred times.
I don’t push. I’ve learned not to press people who don’t want to talk, and Zane looks like the kind of man who doesn’t talk unless he absolutely has to. Instead, I focus on the scrape, wrapping it carefully with a clean bandage. His skin is warm under my fingers, his jawline rough with stubble. I work quickly and methodically, pretending not to notice how close we are.
The faint scent of his cologne reaches me—a subtle mix of cedar and something darker, earthier. It pulls me back to a time when I thought life could still hold sparks of excitement, of desire. The warmth of his presence so close to mine stirs something deep inside me, a feeling I haven’t allowed myself to experience in years. My heart stumbles over itself, skipping a beat, as I realize just how little space separates us.
Zane doesn’t pull away. His guarded expression softens just a fraction, but it’s enough to shift the air between us. There’s something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe recognition of the same flicker of attraction I’m trying to ignore. Whatever it is, it feels tangible. A thread stretched taut between us, threatening to snap.
I feel myself shift. His gaze on me isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s definitely intense, making my belly heat. And the feeling gets worse when it drops down to his full lips, the lip stud at the edge of his mouth. I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my tongue around it.
Shit.
Heat rushes to my face, and I focus on the first aid kit like it’s the most important task in the world. I snap the kit shut with more force than necessary, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between us. My throat feels dry, but I manage to clear it.
“All done,” I say, stepping back. “Try to keep it clean.”
He stands, towering over me again, and nods. “Thanks.”
Even though I’m done, there’s a restless energy in the air, like he’s waiting for the right moment to do or say something. I move to pack up the first aid kit, but his voice stops me.
“What kind of threats has Jason been making?” he asks.
I glance at him, surprised. “You probably know the type. Watching me, showing up at places he shouldn’t. The messages are always vague. Just enough to make sure I know he’s there, that he’s not going anywhere.”
Zane’s jaw tightens. “Stalking. Intimidation.”
“Psychological warfare,” I correct softly, avoiding his piercing gaze. “He’s good at it.”
“I wish I could’ve done worse to the bastard,” Zane mutters, his voice low and rough. His words carry a sharp edge, almost too sharp for someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my life.
