She meets my eyes. “Like tonight. Like every night you walk out that door and I have to wonder if you’re coming back.”
The vulnerability in those words does something dangerous to my carefully maintained control. I reach up with my good arm, cup her face in my palm. “I came back.”
“Bleeding.”
“Bleeding but alive.” My thumb traces her cheekbone. “I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise that.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You can’t control everything, Nikola. Not even you.”
She’s right, and we both know it. Admitting that feels like giving ground I can’t afford to lose, so instead I lean forward and kiss her.
She makes a small sound of surprise before melting into it, her hands coming up to rest against my chest. The kiss tastes like midnight and fear and relief, and when she pulls back her eyes are darker than they were moments ago.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, reaching for the butterfly bandages. “This needs to be closed properly.”
I watch her work, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. Her knees pressing against the inside of my thighs. Her breath warm against my skin. The concentration on her face as she carefully aligns the wound edges and applies each strip with precision.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask, more to distract myself from how her proximity is affecting me than from genuine curiosity.
“My brother used to get into fights.” She doesn’t look up from her task. “Someone had to patch him up before our parents found out.”
The casual mention of her family—the life she had before me—sends an unexpected pang through my chest. “You miss him.”
“Every day.” She secures the last bandage and sits back on her heels, examining her work. “He’d probably try to kill you if he knew what you’ve done to my life.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.” She reaches for the roll of gauze to create a proper dressing over the butterflies. “He was always protective. Stupidly so, sometimes.”
“Sounds familiar.”
She glances up at me, and there’s something almost like affection in her eyes. “You’re both idiots who think violence solves everything.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“Sometimes it just gets you shot.” She wraps the gauze around my arm with careful precision. “Hold this.”
I press my finger against the gauze while she secures it with medical tape. The domesticity of the moment—her kneeling between my legs, tending a wound, both of us half dressed in themiddle of the night—it’s more intimate than sex. More real than any of the careful negotiations that have defined our relationship until now.
When she finishes, she doesn’t move away. Her hands rest on my thighs, warm through the fabric of my pants, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For caring whether I live or die.”
Her fingers tighten on my legs. “I hate that I care. I hate that I spent three hours lying awake wondering if you were coming back. I hate that seeing you bleeding made me want to find whoever shot you and hurt them worse.”
The fierce protectiveness in her voice does something primal to me. “Elara—”
“I’m still angry at you.” Even though she cuts me off, she’s leaning closer now, drawn by the same magnetic pull I’m feeling. “I’m still furious about everything you’ve done, everything you’ve taken from me.”
“I know.”
“I also can’t stop thinking about you.” The admission seems to cost her something. “Can’t stop wanting you, even though I know I shouldn’t.”
My hand finds the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. “We shouldn’t do this.”
