“Give me that.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I know.” He reaches for the antiseptic bottle. “Give it to me anyway.”
I snap. I spin toward him, the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad still clutched in my trembling fingers. My free hand shoots out, aiming for the pressure point just below his ribs. The same move I tried in the corridor.
He catches my wrist before I make contact.
His fingers wrap around mine, firm and warm. Ashe lowers my hand slowly to my lap, I realize with a jolt that the robe must have ridden up when I shifted positions. Darius’s palm presses against my bare thigh, skin on skin.
The reaction is instantaneous. Heat races up my leg, pools low in my belly, steals the breath from my lungs. My pulse spikes. My skin flushes.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until the brown is nearly swallowed by black. His gaze drops to where his hand rests on my exposed skin. I watch his jaw clench, see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, he drags his eyes back to my face with visible effort.
“You can fight me all you like.” His voice comes out rougher now. Strained. “But you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve seen to your wounds.”
“I don’t want your pity.” I try to yank my hand free, without success. “Or your help.”
“I don’t pity you.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Right. You’re too busy looking down on me for that.”
I try to push off the bed with my free hand. To get away from him and this heat that’s making it hard to think.
He pulls me back down.
I fall onto my back with a gasp. Before I can scramble up, he’s there. Hovering over me. His knees straddle my hips, pinning me in place without putting his weight on me.
He takes the cotton pad from my fingers.
“What are you—Stop!” I push against his chest, but he doesn’t move. “Get off me!”
“No.” He pours more antiseptic onto the pad, his movements controlled. “Not until this is done.”
“I can do it myself!”
“Your hands are shaking.” He leans forward, bringing the pad toward my face. “Hold still.”
I turn my injured cheek away. “Don’t…”
His free hand cups my jaw, fingers gentle but firm as he turns my face back toward him and holds me in place.
The first touch of the antiseptic makes me cry out. Fresh tears spring to my eyes as it burns.
“I know it hurts,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my jawline. Softly. Soothingly. “Just breathe through it.”
“I hate you,” I grit out.
“I know.”
He dabs delicately at the deepest scratch, his eyes focused on it as if this is the most important thing in the world. Like cleaning my wounds matters more than anything else.
I want to fight him. Want to shove him off of me and tell him to leave me alone.
But I’m so tired. So exhausted from holding everything together, from pretending I’m fine when I’m really falling apart.
