I try not to breathe in deep gulps, just so I could have more of her in my lungs. And fail spectacularly. “Give me your arm."
She holds it out, jaw set, trying to look like she doesn't care. “Your name, mountain man.”
I can’t catch the edge of my mouth from twisting up. “Elias Sharif.”
“I would say nice to meet you but we both know that would be a lie. But thank you for saving my life, Elias.” She raises a hand before I can open my mouth in protest. “Yes, you were paid to do it, but still.”
I grunt. Damn little slip of a thing but she knows me already. I uncap the antiseptic, unroll some gauze and pick out a few bandages from the small bag.
“My name is Iris and I love cooking, babies and my brother Marco. I also love teaching and have a degree. Other loves include gardening, knitting and hiking. And please, don’t laugh at the last. Just because I’m fat doesn’t mean I’m not athletic.”
Is she for real? Has she looked at herself in the mirror?
Because she should see a fucking Goddess.
I sneak a glance up at her. Her head’s turned away from me, offering me the delicate line of her profile. The pulse at her neck thrums in a jittery way. She’s breathing hard and I realize she’s talking to keep the sobs out.
I still.
There’s a part of me that urges me to pull her into my arms and just…hold her. Give her some basic human comfort. Let her move through the shock. But a bigger fear stops me.
I don’t think I could stop holding her, or touching her, if I do it once.
Slowly, I reach for her hand. Mine dwarfs hers, my tanned, scarred knuckles a study in contrast against her long, elegant fingers. I lift her arm and slowly press the antiseptic against her skin with a cotton ball.
She hisses, her fingers stiffening against mine but doesn't pull away. Her warmth feels like a blanket draped over my shoulders.
I clean it thoroughly, then the scrape on her palm, then tape a square of gauze over the first one.
I'm marring her with my rough, wrecked hands. The thought settles in my chest with a weight I can't examine. Then another thought follows it, darker and quieter.
I want to mar her.
Iwantto put my hands all over her and leave evidence of it—divots from my fingers, scrapes from my stubble as I rub it against the tender flesh of her intimate places, my fingerprints around her neck.
The urge is so vivid that I can feel my fingers shake.
“Can you check my knee too?" she says, pushing her leg forward. Oblivious to the war happening eighteen inches from her face.
Before I can reply, she gathers the ruined silk of her dress and pulls it up her thigh. The smooth, thick flesh of her thighs is a decadent, yet innocent invitation.
The torn edge gets tangled around her thighs. With a gasp, she pulls it back down a little but it’s too late.
I’ve seen the flash of color beneath the virginal white dress.
Neon pink panties. A scrap of lace. Just to torment me further.
My jaw tightens so hard I hear my back teeth creak. I keep my eyes on her knee. The scrape is much worse.
I clean it without the least bit of gentleness—she hisses again, her fingers gripping the arm of the chair—dab it dry, dress it. Clinical. Efficient. Done.
I stand up and turn away, putting distance between me and her. God only knows how long I’ll be stuck with her.
I count back from fifty, just to get my head screwed on right, when I hear her moving around gingerly.
"I need something to wear," she says from behind me. "Do you have a spare set of clothes I could borrow?"
"No."
