“Bar fight,” he says, and I can tell it's not the whole truth. “Some guys didn't like my face.”
“You said you were handling the fire situation. If you can't tell me, fine. Don't bullshit me.”
He sits straighter. “You're right. I'm sorry. Technically, the fight happened in a bar of sorts.” He holds my gaze. “We found the men who started the fire.”
My hands still on the bandage. “You found them?”
“My team tracked them down. We had a conversation.”
The blood on his shirt. His raw knuckles. The evasion in his eyes. I'm not naive. I know what kind of conversation leaves someone looking like this.
“Did they tell you who hired them?”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. Maybe he expected me to flinch.
“They gave us a name. A fixer who works for people who don't want to get their hands dirty.”
“And now?”
“Now we follow the trail.”
I process this. The man on my couch tracked down criminals and beat information out of them. He's watching me, waiting to see how I react. Testing me, maybe.
“Good,” I say quietly. “I hope you find whoever's behind it.”
He exhales, and something in his posture unlocks.
“This cut needs to be cleaned properly. Can you...” I gesture at his shirt. “I need to see your shoulder.”
He reaches for the top button. I should look away. I know I should. I don't.
Kai works his way down, one button at a time.
I've seen shirtless men before. Nothing prepared me for this. The broad expanse of his chest, the defined ridges of his abs, a tattoo I didn't know he had. A stylized compass spreading across his pectoral and curling toward his collarbone, cardinal points in bold black lines, the design intricate and bold. He's all golden skin and hard muscle. My apartment feels ten degrees warmer.
“Emma?”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I'm looking at your injuries.”
“My injuries are on my arm and shoulder.” His voice is low, amused despite everything. “You're looking at my chest.”
“I am not.” I absolutely am. “Hold still.”
I grab the antiseptic wipes, focus on his forearm, dabbing at the cut with more concentration than necessary. He hisses when the antiseptic hits, good hand gripping the couch cushion.
“Sorry.” I blow on it gently, the way my mom used to do when I scraped my knees. “Almost done.”
I'm kneeling between his legs, bare skin under my hands, close enough to smell leather and sweat and something underneath that's just him. This isn't how I imagined tonightgoing. I had a book picked out. Tea steeping. Plans to pretend the world didn't exist.
Instead, I'm patching up a man who showed up at my door bleeding after interrogating arsonists.
“You're good at this,” Kai says quietly.
I snort. “I'm really not. Making this up as I go.”
