He finishes both steaks and most of the vegetables. When he’s done, he sets the utensils down and looks at me.
“Thank you,” he says again, and the weight of those two words makes my chest ache.
I smile, taking the plate and setting it in the sink. When I face him again, I say bluntly, “Let me see your back.”
His jaw locks. “It’s fine.”
“Darius.”
“I’m healing. It’ll be gone by morning.”
“I don’t care.” I move around the island to him, close enough to smell both soap and the dark scent underneath that is purely him. “Turn around.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse. His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense, searching for something.
Then, he turns slowly, presenting his back to me.
My breath catches.
The welts are healing, that much is true. But they’re still visible. Angry red lines crisscrossing the broad expanse of his back. Some have scabbed over. Others still look raw.
“Sit over there,” I say, gesturing toward the living room. “Please.”
He moves to the couch and sinks down, his movements cautious. I follow, pulling all my supplies out of the pharmacy bag.
I kneel on the couch beside Darius, angling him so I can reach his back properly. I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad and press it to the first wound.
His entire body goes rigid, muscles tensing beneath my touch. But he doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t flinch away.
I work methodically, cleaning each whip mark with meticulous precision. The pad turns pink with his blood; I have to use three new ones.
Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are our breathing—his controlled and measured, mine too quick.
My fingers brush his skin as I work, and every touch sends heat racing through me. I try to ignore it. I try to focus on tending to his injuries and not on the way his muscles flex beneath my hands. On how close we are to each other.
When I finish cleaning the wounds, I reach for the bandages.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says quietly. “They’ll heal by morning.”
“I’m doing it anyway.”
I carefully place gauze over the worst of the weltsand tape it in place. His skin is warm beneath my fingers. Smooth except for the raised edges of his injuries.
I trace the line of one welt with my fingertip, ever so lightly, and I feel him shudder.
“Violet.” My name is both a warning and a plea.
I pull my hand back but don’t move away. Can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For this. For you getting hurt because of me. For everything.” My voice breaks. “For being cruel. For pushing you away. For not seeing everything you’ve been doing for me.”
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, Darius turns slowly on the couch to face me. His dark eyes bore into mine, and I see everything in them. The pain. The frustration. The hunger he’s been fighting.
