I stop carving. Setting the knife and the wood on the side table, I stand. Floorboards creak under my boots as I walk to the bed.
"Tristan?" Her voice is a wreck, raspy from sleep and dehydration.
"I’m here." My voice drops into that low register that seems to soothe her. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I’m careful not to jostle her splinted leg. "Pain?"
She blinks, taking stock of her body. "It’s... a dull throb. The sharp stabbing faded."
"The morphine is doing its job. But it’s wearing off."
She tries to push herself up, arms shaking. I reach out instantly, hands encompassing her shoulders. She feels fragile beneath my palms, bones delicate like a bird’s, but I know there’s steel in her spine. She didn’t cry when I set the bone. She screamed, but she didn’t break.
I help her sit against the headboard, rearranging the pillows behind her back. My knuckles brush the nape of her neck, and a jolt goes through me—heavy, hot, instantaneous. She stiffens, oxygen stalling in her chest, but doesn’t pull away.
"Thirsty," she whispers.
I grab the mason jar of water from the nightstand and hold it to her lips, tilting it slowly. She drinks greedily, a little stream escaping the corner of her mouth and tracking down her chin.
The droplet falls. It traces the line of her jaw, slips down her throat, and disappears into the collar of my hoodie. My eyes follow it, hungry. I have the sudden, insane urge to lick that path clean.
"Slow down," I murmur. "You’ll make yourself sick."
She pulls back, gasping for air, chest heaving. The movement presses her breasts against the fabric of the shirt. Gritting my teeth, I focus on her face. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with fever and fatigue.
"I feel gross," she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sticky. How long have I been out?"
"Most of the day. The storm isn’t letting up."
She looks toward the darkened window, where the rain slashes against the glass. "My research... my team in town..."
"They aren’t looking for you yet." Maybe it's the truth. The storm would ground the rescue choppers anyway. "Marcus won’t send anyone up here in this weather. You’re staying put."
"I need to wash," she says, looking down at herself. "I feel like I’m covered in mud and sweat."
"You can’t walk to the bathroom. Not yet."
"So what? I just rot here?" Her eyes flash. There’s that fire. Even broken, she challenges me.
"No." I stand. "I’ll help you."
Her eyes widen. "You... no. I can do it myself if you just get me a bowl."
"You can’t reach your back. You can’t reach your legs without twisting that break." I turn toward the small kitchenette area. "I’m not asking, Alexandria. I’m telling you."
I fill a basin with warm water from the tap and grab a clean washcloth and a bar of soap—sandalwood and grit. When I return to the bed, she watches me with a mix of apprehensionand curiosity. She’s realized she has no leverage here. She is entirely at my mercy.
The thought makes my blood run hot.
Setting the basin on the nightstand, I wring out the cloth. Steam rises from it. I sit back down on the edge of the bed, my thigh brushing against her good leg. The contact burns.
"Take off the hoodie," I say quietly.
She freezes. "Tristan."
"I’ve already seen everything, Allie. I cut your clothes off you yesterday. There’s nothing to hide."
The nickname slips out—Allie. I haven’t called anyone a nickname since I was a kid. It tastes intimate on my tongue.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for the hem of the sweatshirt. She struggles, movements clumsy. I sigh, a rough sound in the quiet room, and brush her hands away.
