Jordan obeys stiffly, hobbling to the table and pulling out a chair.
I flip open the first aid kit, laying out antiseptic, bandages, and butterfly strips, and putting everything in its place. Grabbing the betadine with lidocaine, I wet a gauze pad.
She braces, body tightening and locking up.
I keep going anyway. This isn’t about comfort. Just repairs. Triage.
I dab the cut on Jordan’s neck. She twitches and inhales sharply through her teeth.
I shouldn’t care, but the reaction slows me down. Gentles my touch.
Her shoulders relax a fraction, and my chest loosens in response.
I hadn’t even realized I was tense.
I keep my movements careful and methodical, refusing to notice the heat of her skin or the quick skip of her pulse each time my hand gets too close.
“Thank you.” Her warm, heavy stare weighs on my face. “For…back there.”
She shouldn’t thank me. I’m still the shark who dragged her out of her safe little bubble.
I glance up to meet her eyes. “Why didn’t you call the cops?”
I’ve been holding that question the whole way here. She had a dozen ways out and didn’t try a single one.
She settles her clear, sharp gaze on mine.
“You had time, you know. Could’ve flagged down a cop car or found a phone. Spilled everything.”
“And say what? That I was abducted by a stranger? That he’s after something I’ve never seen? That he’s a killer?” She huffs out a brittle, jagged laugh. “They’d call me crazy. Or worse, they’d believe every word. And I’d be cooped up with them instead of you.”
She doesn’t want cops. Why? My file on her came up clean. No record. Or maybe she just hasn’t gotten caught yet. “You were scared.”
“Of course I was scared!” Her near-yell ricochets off the bare kitchen walls. “I’m still scared. But I’m not an idiot. I know what happens to people who open their mouths.”
She’s smart, and she’s right. If she’d gone to the police, we would’ve known within the hour. And then we’d have her anyway, gift-wrapped by the detectives on our payroll.
I finish cleaning the blood from her neck and move to the raw scrapes on her arms. Goosebumps bloom in my wake.
This is what she rushed toward. She left my pristine fortress and ended up battered and bleeding and in the hands of animals who would have used her, chewed her up, and spat her out once they’d squeezed out what they wanted.
That thought pulses a cold, black current of rage through me.
I finish wrapping her wrist, keeping my hands steady and my breathing even.
But inside, I sense a shift.
A complication I prefer not to mention.
Her skin is so soft and smooth, I want to run my lips across her neck and taste every inch.
She’s observing me.
What does she see?
The monster who pulled her from one hell only to drop her in another? The killer who painted streets in blood for her sake? Or something else?
Shark.
