He turned her arm slowly, examining the damage the way a jeweler examines a precious stone. The burn spread across her inner wrist in an irregular patch.
“You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
The panic he’d felt in that moment, when her sleeve caught fire. That split second of frozen terror before his body moved without permission, his hand closing around her shoulder, wrenching her away from the hearth.
He knew too well what a fresh burn felt like, and he didn’t envy her. She had the finest skin, soft as flower petals and glasslike. So fragile. So delicate.
He dabbed the cloth with methodical patience. Water trickled down her arm, tracing the blue veins beneath her translucent skin.
Stop.
The salve waited in a small tin, its contents the color of raw honey. Hopefully, he treated it soon enough to prevent scarring.
He scooped a measured dollop onto his fingertips and gently touched the burn.
She went rigid. Every muscle in her arm tensed, her hand curling into a fist against his palm. Her breath vanished. She held still as prey.
Jack spread the salve with excruciating care. His warm fingers melting the wax-like base thin as watercolor, keeping his touch light as absolution.
Her fist slowly uncurled. Followed by a slow exhale.
“The burn isn’t deep.” He kept his words clinical. Detached. “There shouldn’t be scarring if you keep it covered.”
Unlike your back.
Unlike your shoulders.
Unlike every inch of you that still carries the Chancellor’s signature.
The gauze unrolled from its spool with a soft whisper. He wrapped three times, each pass precise. He gently secured the edges with fingers that refused to shake.
She watched him work. Those disarming eyes tracking every motion, every breath, every microscopic shift in his expression. Cataloguing him with dangerous attention to detail. He needed space.
“Lie back.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
“Your feet.” He gestured toward the foot of the bed.
Defiance flickered across her face—that stubborn lift of chin he was beginning to recognize. She wanted to refuse. Wanted to maintain some illusion of control in a situation where she had none.
He waited.
The fire crackled. Shadows danced across the walls. Then the bell tolled, the gong crashing over them like a wave, jarring and awakening.
She reclined against the pillows, spine rigid, bandaged arm cradled against her chest. His oversized shirt rode up as she moved, exposing the pale columns of her thighs, and Jack forced his gaze to the foot of the bed. To the task at hand.
He studied the damage. Scratches crosshatched her soles in a vicious lattice—some shallow, some deep. Small rocks had left angry red divots.
His stomach clenched.
This is what your philanthropy purchased.
He reached for her left foot. Cradled her heel in his palm, his thumb resting against the delicate arch where the worst of the scratches congregated.
She tensed but didn’t pull away when he pressed the damp cloth to her ruined skin.
He started with the spaces between her toes—cleaning away debris with small, careful strokes. The water in the pitcher clouded. A shard of something sharp caught the light.
