“No.”
Her voice was steady, but I could feel her wanting to press. I gave her the gauze to hold against the wound while I reached for the wrap.
She glanced toward her bag. “I should grab my—”
“Let me finish first.” I didn’t raise my tone, but I didn’t leave space for argument. She held my stare a second longer than most people would before letting it go. Stubborn.
She kept the gauze in place while I tested her range of motion, flexing the foot just enough to read her limits. The swelling was contained for now, but I’d need it elevated and wrapped before it had the chance to spread.
“This next part will help the most if you stay still,” I said, taking the gauze back from her.
Her shoulders loosened a fraction. I began the first turn of the wrap, anchoring it low before moving up toward the joint. The rhythm of the work settled into me, my focus narrowing to the shape of her ankle under my hands and the small, unguarded tells she didn’t realize she gave: the hitch in her breath when my thumb brushed too close to the wound, the way her toes curled against the cushion.
I finished the last loop of the wrap, smoothing it down so the pressure sat even. Her pulse ticked steady at the base of her ankle. I checked the line of her foot, the way her toes shifted as she adjusted.
“Any numbness?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
I eased a cushion under her heel, raising the joint above her knee. Her gaze tracked the movement, then stayed on me as I tested a gentle flexion. The wrap held. No sharp recoil in her expression.
“Good,” I said. “We’ll ice it every hour. No weight on it tonight, okay?”
“You always this careful?”
“Yes." My eyes flicked up to meet hers. "When it matters.”
Her mouth curved slightly, though she didn’t look away. The fire popped, drawing a soft light over her face and the blanket pooled in her lap. I kept my voice low, not to hide the words, but to keep her anchored where she was.
“Permission to move your leg a little more?”
“Yes.”
I shifted her foot a few inches, adjusting the cushion so it supported her calf as well as the ankle. My hands lingered half a second longer than they needed to before I stepped back.
I draped the blanket over her legs, tucking it lightly so it stayed in place. Her eyes followed my hands as I smoothed the wrinkles out, feeling her muscles flex. This was a job, my client. I had no right to notice how warm her skin felt. I needed to get myself together and be a professional.
A faint smear of grit marked her palm. I took a folded wipe from the kit and brushed the debris away carefully, noting her pulse at the wrist and how it sped up slightly at my touch. Her fingers stilled under mine as I cleaned each one, making sure no dirt or grit remained. Just work. Not an excuse to touch her more.
“Better,” I said, discarding the wipe.
The air between us tightened with mutual awareness and a touch of heat. I didn’t move to fill it with words. Her eyes darkened as she looked into mine, her pupils dilating a little in the firelight as she bit her bottom lip.
Footsteps crossed the foyer. Kara walked into the room, her attention fixed on the wall panel beside the fireplace. She pressed a control, and the flat screen above the mantel came to life.
The image cut to a local anchor behind a sleek desk. “Developing story tonight. A star witness in an ongoing corruption probe was killed in a single-car accident just after eight tonight.”
The broadcast switched to shaky footage of a guardrail twisted open to the edge of a ravine. Headlights from an emergency vehicle painted the wreck in cold white bursts.
I glanced at Sabine. Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale. She didn’t look away from the screen.
The photo of the victim appeared next: a man in his fifties, suit jacket and striped tie, smile frozen for some corporate headshot. The ticker scrolled under him: No foul play suspected.
Kara stood with the remote in one hand, her phone in the other, scrolling through something as the segment repeated. “We tighten protocols. No solo movement,” she said, voice low.
I read the details on the ticker without moving closer. Location: rural highway outside a small town west of the city. Time: less than three hours after the news site had run a follow-up on Sabine’s article. The pattern fit too neatly to be chance. This was Bellante territory: fast cleanup, clean press narrative.
The anchor’s tone shifted back to routine as the screen returned to a wide shot of the desk. Kara turned down the volume until the voice was a muted hum. The room felt bigger and colder, the edges of the stone walls sharper.
