Before I can decide, I force myself to knock. The sound of movement inside makes me freeze.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Shirtless. His hair is damp, suggesting he just got out of the shower. Water droplets cling to his collarbone, trailing down the defined lines of his chest and abdomen.
But all I can think about is his back. The wounds that I know are there, hidden from view.
His dark eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker in their depths. One of surprise, I think. Then, something else. Something that makes my skin flush hot despite the situation.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice rough.
I push past him before he can stop me. “And you shouldn’t have done what you did today.”
The apartment is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, lights twinkling like stars below. The furniture is modern and expensive: leather couches, a glass coffee table, abstract art on the walls. Everything is immaculate and perfectly arranged.
Except for the bloody shirt thrown over the back of an armchair.
The shirt that was clean when he walked away from the training grounds. When he walked away from me.
My stomach clenches.
Darius closes the door softly behind me. “How did you know where I live?”
“Ethan told me.”
“Of course he did.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at his injuries. “You need to go home,Violet. It’s late.”
“No.” I head to his kitchen, setting my load down on the marble counter. “Have you eaten?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Have. You. Eaten.” I start opening cabinets, looking for a plate. “Because I brought food, and you’re going to eat it.”
“Violet.”
“Where are your plates, Darius?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, he moves to the cabinet beside the sink, pulls out a plate, and sets it on the counter.
I open the first container, and the scent of cooked steak fills the kitchen. His eyes track my movements, and I see his throat work as he swallows.
“You made this?” His voice is quieter now. “For me?”
“Yes.” I arrange both steaks on the plate and add the vegetables beside them. “Red meat. Helps with healing.”
As I hand it to him, our fingers brush. Electricity shoots up my arm, and I see his pupils blow wide before he looks away.
He stands at the counter, staring down at the food he’s holding. After a few seconds, his eyes glance up and meet mine. There’s a raw look in them, like this simple act of care has undone him more than anything else could.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
I nod, emotion clogging my throat.
He sits on a barstool at the island, takes the knife and fork I hand him, and cuts into the steak, eating in silence.
I watch him. Watch the way his jaw moves, the muscles in his throat as he swallows. Watch relief cross his features as the protein hits his system, his body already using it to heal.
