“I—”
“Another word, and I call Volkov back.”
The color drained from her face.
Jack crouched beside the box, cataloguing its violated contents with clinical detachment. Months of painstakingly organizing such careful documentation—gone. He should be furious about the loss. Should be calculating the hours it would take to reconstruct what she’d destroyed.
Instead, all he could think about was how hard she’d fallen when Volkov cut her off in the hall. He remembered the smear of dried blood at her hairline from earlier. The wound might have split open again. She might need stitches. Who could tell when she refused to be examined by a doctor?
Stubborn.
Her skin was raw beneath her scorched sleeve, her ivory legs marbled with bruises.
Damn her.
He rose and moved to the bed, his stride clipped and purposeful. At least she had the sense to lean out of his way.
His hands had never been gentle. He’d learned to suture his own flesh before he’d learned to tie a proper Windsor knot. Not a single person, not even his mother, willing to help him. Not until he met Myrtle.
But he’d learned. Pain was an excellent teacher.
Her gaze tracked the medical kit as he opened it with practiced efficiency, suspicion warring with exhaustion across her bruised features.
“Give me your arm.”
She tucked it against her chest. “I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t asking.” He held out a hand, daring her to disobey him. As soon as she placed her hand in his, he mumbled, “What kind of fool sticks their arm in a fire.”
“What kind of man?—”
Her words cut off when he looked at her. “Finish the sentence. Go on.”
Her gaze lowered.
“Now, you’re going to sit there and let me fix what you broke.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
“You broke everything.” The words escaped before he could cage them. He stilled, hands frozen over the gauze, fingers curled around the cotton like a lifeline.
You broke everything.
Not just the files. Not just the room. Something deeper. What, he couldn’t name.
Her hand trembled in his grip—fine vibrations running through her bones like a current. The burn began just below her palm, angry and red, the skin already blistering in white-ridged welts that would weep before healing. Singed golden hair dusted the surrounding flesh, carrying the acrid smell of something precious destroyed by carelessness.
Or courage. He couldn’t decide which.
The antiseptic would sting. He knew this intimately—remembered the white-hot sear of alcohol on open wounds, the way his younger self had bitten through his lip to keep from crying out in that gilded bedroom where no one came when he screamed.
“This has to be cleaned.”
Collecting the pitcher from the bar, he filled it with cool water and carried it back to the bed. He wet a cloth and wrung it out, taking her hand again. She hissed through her teeth, a sharp intake of breath that hovered between pain and relief, when he pressed it to her inflamed skin with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact.
But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch.
Stubborn creature.
