“Sit.”
“Yes sir,” I grumble.
I plop down into the chair, wincing with all the sore spots.
“Where else do you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” I try.
“Where else?”
“My hands,” I show him my palms, they were just scratched up with tiny beads of blood that really weren’t much of a concern, “And my back, mainly at the bottom. I think I landed on something or he uh, pushed me down too hard.”
There’s something weirdly hypnotic about watching a man clench his jaw. Kolt’s jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, the muscle jumping as he focuses on the cut on my knee. He pulls supplies from the box, but the first spray of the antiseptic has me jumping in my seat.
“Motherfucker!” I yell.
“Easy,” He grumbles, his hand curling around the top of my thigh to keep me seated.
“Easy!?” I growl, “That hurts!”
“I know, baby, but stay still so I can see the damage.”
He gently swipes over the wound, the white cloth coming away redder and redder with each wipe. “It’s not too deep,” he says quietly, continuing his cleanup of the site before he pats it dry and gets a large white band aid from the box.
“I’m a little old to have band aids on scuffed knees.”
“Why would you be too old?” He asks, expertly applying the dressing before he gets a new wipe and starts to clean up my hands.
I shrug, “Just something I didn’t think I’d ever need again.”
“Becoming an adult doesn’t automatically mean you won’t cut your knees,” A small grin is pulling on his mouth, the anger from before seeping away, “It just tends to be carpet burn over grazes.”
My mouth drops open.
He chuckles, “Turn around, let me check your back.”
“I’m not wearing anything,” I tell him.
For a quick second something flashes in his eyes but he masks it and quirks a brow, waiting for me to do as he has asked.
I stand and turn, pulling the robe off my shoulders and hold it just above my ass to keep myself covered from my hips down. I still have a bra on, so it isn’t like I’m fully nude.
The first touch of his fingers to my back makes me jump, the rough tips of them a shock even though I can clearly see the callouses that harden his fingertips.
“This is just a little red,” He says in a note just above a whisper, his tone a rasp that scrapes along my insides in the most delicious way, “It might bruise a little but there isn’t anything I can do to make it feel better.”
“It’s okay,” I say, holding very, very still while his hand continues to move over my skin, the touch like the flutter of a butterfly wing.
“I should have killed him,” The words are said so quietly I almost miss them but, in every note, they hit true. If I hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed Patrick.
So why am I not afraid of him?
“He’ll never come near you again,” He vows, “Ever. I promise you.”
“What are you going to do? Kill him?” I shake my head.
“I want to,” He helps push my robe back on and takes a step back, putting space between us, “I want to bury him for even thinking about taking something you are not willing to give. He would have hurt you, Vanessa.”
