“Don’t.” He grazes his thumb over my injured hand, carefully skittering around the wound. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
I nod, dropping my attention to the glass sticking out of my skin, my teeth scraping my lower lip more aggressively.
“Bianca,” Ryder rasps, curling his finger under my chin to lift my head. “Close your eyes.”
I won’t faint,I don’t mind blood,I’m fine,and a few similar proclamations die on my tongue, my eyes closing on cue.
Robbing myself of sight, my other senses heighten. The softness of Ryder’s hands on mine, the proximity and warmth of his body, the scent of him... it pummels me like a prize fighter, making me tremble.
He mistakes it for fear, or pain. Maybe both. His fingers brush mine, they squeeze.
“Deep breath,” he repeats.
I obey, gasping when a sensation I’ve never experienced before rattles through me. A feeling of lightness, as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It’s so bizarre, so confusing, that I miss the moment Ryder grasps the shard of glass, pulling it out in one rough motion.
My teeth clamp shut, all sounds swallowed, spine rigid. The warm flow of blood intensifies, soaking my hand. I fight to keep my eyes closed, my breath even.
Pain radiates up my arm, screaming in my veins when Ryder covers the wound with something soft.
“You don’t need stitches.” The rasp in his tone intensifies the butterfly-wings effect in my tummy.
No man before and no man after Ryder could ever make me feel this way. Not one will render me thisneedy. It’s appalling how often I imagine his big hands on my body, long fingers tugging my hair, that harsh tone whispering filth in my ear.
His low, gravelly voice sends tingles down my spine, and sometimes, when he’s exasperated, almost growling his words, I swear he could talk me into an orgasm. I’m not far from catching fire when those chocolate eyes meet mine, and it’s even more thrilling when his annoyance evokes that predatory glint.
“I’d ask how you’re doing but you’re fine, right?”
Far from it.
The pain is a sharp-toothed, sharp-clawed bitch shredding its way through my nervous system in jagged streaks. No number of steady breaths that fill my lungs with Ryder’s scent can help dry the tears welling beneath my eyelashes.
“Winter,” Ryder prompts again, concern layering his tone. “Open your eyes.”
I shake my head, my lower lip between my teeth.
He lets go of me and his warm hands cup my cheeks. The shuffle of his boots tells me he’s moved closer.
This is embarrassing. It’s a simple cut. It’ll heal. I shouldn’t sit here, tearing up. I’m stronger than that. The pain is bad, but notthatbad.
Not enough to make me cry.
Ryder’s care, however, the softness of his touch, the careful way in which he handles my injury... it pokes at the most neglected parts of me. It brings forth painful memories of my adopted parents.
I didn’t realize this until I was older, but they were never careful with me. They didn’t reassure me when I came home with a scraped knee. They didn’t dress my wounds, just threw a pack of plasters at me to deal with it myself.
A big contrast to the way they doted over their biological son. Their little miracle baby. Mom couldn’t get pregnant, hence why they took me in, but once Trevor was born, I ceased to exist.
“Look at me,” Ryder insists. His thumbs brush the soft skin under my eyes, his breath hot on my cheek.
I can’t help it. Against better judgment I blink a few times, chasing the blurred wetness away.
“Fuck,” he whispers on a shaky exhale, eyes jumping between mine, his pupils blown.
Heat swells behind my ribs, arousal soaring because he looks... feral. Possessive.
The intensity of his stare makes me forget the pain. I can only concentrate on how much I want his lips on mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me it hurts this bad?”
