There’s no edge to it, just quiet authority that makes refusing impossible. I step inside.
The room smells faintly of whiskey and smoke. Papers are scattered across his desk, a gun disassembled neatly beside them. He crosses to the nightstand, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small black case.
I glance past him, unable to help myself. His bed looks exactly the way I imagined it would. Perfectly made, the sheets crisp and dark, and not a single wrinkle in sight. The comforter is a deep charcoal gray, heavy and smooth, probably something absurdly expensive. The pillows are lined up inprecise symmetry, two large ones behind smaller accent pillows that look like no one’s ever actually slept on them.
The rest of the room matches — minimal, masculine, and deliberate. Dark wood. Clean lines. The faint scent of leather and his cologne clinging to the air. It feels less like a bedroom and more like a command center that happens to have a bed in it.
But there’s a softness here, too, buried beneath all that control. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed, a glass of water on the nightstand, a worn book beside it with the corner of a page turned down. Little things that don’t fit the image of the cold, unshakable man everyone else sees.
It’s strange. For a room that should intimidate me, it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like him. Strong. Careful. And unbearably lonely.
When he turns back, he gestures toward the edge of the bed.
“Sit.”
I do as he says, clutching the towel tighter to my ribs. My pulse beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He crouches in front of me, the first-aid kit open beside him. His movements are careful, practiced, and controlled. When his hand brushes the towel, I flinch.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Let me see.”
I loosen my grip, and he peels the towel away slowly. I try not to think about the fact that he’s about to see my soft stomach. Hell, I bet he’s never seen a woman with meat on her bones.
The cool air hits my skin, followed by his low exhale.
“It’s not the stitches,” he says, examining the wound. “You pulled the skin around it. It’s bleeding, but it’ll stop.”
His fingers are steady as he cleans around the cut with antiseptic, but I can feel the heat of him even without contact. The contrast between the cool swab and the warmth of his nearness makes me shiver.
He glances up at me. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my voice betrays me.
“Hold this.” He places a gauze pad over the wound and guides my hand to it, his touch lingering just a second too long. Then he wraps the bandage around my side, his knuckles brushing bare skin each time the fabric passes.
Neither of us speaks. The air feels thick enough to choke on.
When he finishes, he ties the end of the bandage neatly and sits back on his heels, looking up at me.
“There,” he says quietly. “Try not to move too much for a few days.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely audible.
He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine. “If this happens again, find me.”
The words hit harder than they should. His tone isn’t angry, just certain like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I look away, gripping the edge of the towel. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
“I do.”
The words are quiet, but they land like a blow, almost impossible to ignore. The admission hangs between us, raw and real, neither of us sure what to do with it.
But then he looks away, jaw tightening, retreating into the safety of control. “Sienna would’ve killed me if anything happened to you.”
The ache in my throat turns to a bitter laugh. “Yeah. She probably would have.”
I stand, wiping at my eyes before the tears can fall.
