She did falter then, drawing in a little slip of thin air. She twisted the hair band around her palm, wrapping her hand like she was preparing to throw a punch. Those tiny curls around her face quivered as she watched him move nearer, creating delicate little shadows that danced against the glint of her forehead and cheeks.
“You must have a preference,” he pressed, his blood loud under his skin. “I know I do.”
Her chest heaved, tossing out the narrow breath that she’d chosen before and dragging in a much larger one. “You came to my home,” she hissed, squeezing the fabric in her hand. “You walked all the way to my door and spoke to my grandfather instead of me.”
“I did,” he agreed, his gaze sliding down her throat, over the rise and fall of her breasts, and down to where she was squeezing that scrap of ivory fabric. “Does that displease you?”
“My grandfather’s name might be on the charter here,” she replied, tight and breathless, “but this is my clinic, Roland. You should have reported to me.”
“Perhaps I should have,” he agreed, and took one more step. Too close, he knew. Close enough to smell the cloves and the talcum. Close enough that he could touch those wayward curls if he wanted to. “I suppose I could have slipped into your housethat night. I could’ve found a way in, unseen, and delivered the message. It might have been easy after following you home.”
“You d…” She paused, giving her head a little shake, forcing herself to swallow. “You didn’t do that,” she said, trying again. “You came because of the pig. Because the boys went to get you.”
He couldn’t account for where it came from or why, but a smile was tugging at his lips, watching the way hers quivered. “Is that what happened?” he asked. “Are you certain?”
She watched him, those big eyes gleaming under the thick fringe of her glossy lashes. “How did you know where I live?” she asked softly, though it sounded like she was asking herself, not him.
“How, indeed?” he replied, reaching up absently to scratch at his forearm. He realized what he was doing before he could stop it and winced, stepping back with an annoyed huff that the damned scar was acting up now, of all times.
He hardened his expression, setting his jaw, and pointed at her. “You can’t walk home alone anymore. Not until this nonsense with drunken students and angry bureaucrats has ended. It isn’t safe.”
She blinked, shifting her weight as though he’d knocked her off balance with this sudden change. “I believe I can do whatever I wish,” she returned. “I’ve had no trouble walking home.”
He laughed then, a mocking, exhausted thing. “You’ve had no trouble that you’re aware of,” he corrected, “because you haven’t been alone. You’ve had at least a pair of kits with you every night, whether you realized it or not.”
“A pair of kits,” she repeated, notching her chin up, “or you, Mr. Reed?”
He flexed his hands, heat and static whipping through him at the desire to close the gap of space between them again and grab her. Shake her. Ravish her. Something. “Which is it?” he snapped. “Am I Roland, or Mr. Reed? You ought to decide, for I think it will determine what comes next.”
“Will it indeed?” she returned, her uncertainty igniting back into fury. “How very intriguing. Which are you just this moment, in fact? Which man is the one looking me in the eye and speaking in full sentences? I think I shall keep him, if I might.”
“Is that what you want?” he returned, clicking his teeth as he bit off the words. “This?”
“It is an improvement,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “But it is hardly ideal, still.”
He grinned at her, all teeth and ire. “No, I agree. Not ideal. This man is not sustainable, little Miss Casper. He is moments from a loss of restraint.”
“Oho, restraint!” she said, returning his faux amusement. “Do you wish to punch me like one of your cheating gamblers, then? Are you lost in your ruffian’s toolkit?”
“I am,” he confessed. “But not the way you think.”
She scoffed. “However you think you could punish me, creative as it may be, is futile against my skill to repair the damage. Do not forget that I am a healer.”
“I never forget that,” he ground out, one of those fragile cords holding him back finally snapping as he strode forward until their toes were touching, until their noses were brushing, looking down at her. “I am no doctor. That is true. But do youreally think I don’t know how to unmake a body? That I couldn’t leave my mark on yours?”
“I never make assumptions,” she returned, softer at this proximity, meeting his eye over the tips of their noses. “Hypotheses must be tested. If youwerea doctor, you would know that.”
He grunted, wrapping his fingers around her neck, his thumbs tracing the lines of her jaw as he tilted her face up to look at him, every nerve in his body abuzz.
She did not resist. She did not stop him at all.
But he could feel her pulse. He could time the thrum of her heart beating under the pads of his fingers. He could measure the temperature of her skin, hot and dewy, under his touch.
He knew she was not unaffected.
He breathed it in deeply, preparing to taste it. At long last, to taste it.
And then the crack of gunfire shattered them apart.
