I nod. Don’t trust myself to speak.
Lucas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was scared and stupid and I?—
The words stay locked in my throat.
His fingers are warm as he unlaces my boot. Careful, gentle, professional—and completely devastating. Every brush of his skin against mine sends heat racing up my leg. My breath catches. I pray he doesn’t notice.
He eases the boot off. Then my sock. My ankle is a little swollen, slightly pink. Honestly, it doesn’t look that bad.
“When did this happen?”
“Half hour ago. Outside the bakery.”
“Any weight on it since?”
“Walked to the car. It’s a little tender.”
He nods. Types something on his tablet. Then his hands are on my ankle again, pressing lightly, testing.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
He presses the outside of my ankle. I inhale sharply—not from pain, but from the shock of his fingers on my bare skin. His scent flooding my lungs with every breath. The heat building in my core that has nothing to do with inflammation.
“Tender there?”
“A little.” The word comes out breathy. I clear my throat. “It’s fine.”
He moves his fingers. Palpates along the bone with clinical precision. But there’s nothing clinical about the way I respond—every nerve ending lighting up, skin prickling with awareness, the ache between my thighs that’s getting harder to ignore.
I watch his face as he works. The furrow of concentration between his brows. The way his lips press together when he finds a tender spot. He’s so focused, so careful, and it makes me remember other times those hands touched me. Other contexts entirely.
Stop. Stop it.
I should be using this chance to apologize. To explain. Not sitting here getting slick while he examines my ankle like I’m any other patient.
“Any numbness?” he asks. “Tingling?”
“No.”
His thumb brushes the arch of my foot as he repositions his grip. Accidental. Has to be accidental. But my whole body responds like he touched me somewhere far more intimate.
And then I feel it. The unmistakable slick of arousal.
Not much. Just a hint. But I feel it and I want to die right here on this exam table.
I wanted to use this chance to apologize. Instead I’m making everything worse.
I clench my thighs together. Hard. Try to think about ice, snow, anything cold, anything that isn’t the alpha in front of me with his hands on my skin and that smell everywhere.
“Rotate your foot. Slowly.”
I rotate. Focus on the movement. On the clinical fluorescent lights. On anything except his hands.
“Good range of motion.” His voice is steady. Professional. But his nostrils flare—just slightly, barely perceptible—and I watch his jaw tighten. “Not broken. Mild sprain. Ice it tonight, keep it elevated. You’ll be fine in a couple days.”
He stands abruptly. Moves to the counter. Puts distance between us.
Can he smell it? Can he smell what’s happening to me? My scent must be screaming right now. The thought makes heat flood my face. I want to disappear.
