He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he lifts his head slowly, deliberately, until those icy blue eyes lock onto mine. And that’s when I see it, the thin trail of blood at the corner of his mouth, another seeping from just above his eyebrow. Bruises are already blooming along his jaw, dark against his skin. Evidence of something violent. Something recent.
Something he carried here.
He studies me in silence, his gaze unhurried as it drags over every inch of me, my face, my body, the way I’m standing there frozen in myown living room. It feels like being stripped bare. When his eyes finally return to mine, I can’t look away. I’m caught. Held captive by the weight of his attention.
I don’t know why I move closer. I just do.
My steps are slow, measured, until I’m standing right in front of him, my knee nearly brushing his. I lean down slightly and take the glass from his hand without asking, without breaking eye contact.
I drink.
The vodka burns as it slides down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. A little spills, tracing a path over my lip and down my chin. My thumb lifts instinctively, wiping it away with careful precision.
His eyes follow the movement. Every second of it.
The air between us thickens, charged with things unsaid, with pain and want and something far more dangerous than desire.
“What happened to you?”
The words leave me barely louder than a breath. I’m not even sure he hears them.
He drags his tongue across his lower lip, a quiet wince following when it catches the cut there. “Father dearest,” he murmurs at last, the words weighted with something bitter and old. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer, too close.
I inhale slowly. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from him, feel it sink into my skin like a second pulse.
“Why?” I whisper again. I don’t know why I lower my voice, only that it feels instinctive, like sudden movements might send him slipping back into the shadows. Not that anything truly frightens a man like him.
His hand lifts. Slowly. Deliberately.
His fingers skim my calf, feather-light, barely there, and yet the contact sends a jolt straight through me, sharp and undeniable. My breath stutters. His touch lingers, tracing lazy circles against my skin as if he’s marking territory.
“Because he could,” he says quietly. “Because he wanted to remind me who’s in charge.”
His fingers keep moving. Unhurried. Possessive.
Then my gaze catches on the blood at his eyebrow again, the bruising along his jaw, and the spell snaps. I step back too quickly, breaking the contact, the sudden absence of his touch almost painful.
“I, I’m going to get my first-aid kit,” I say, gesturing toward his face. “Let me clean that up.”
He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t move. Just watches me as I retreat, his presence following me all the way to the bathroom.
I crouch beneath the sink and pull the kit free, then pause. Before I go back to the living room, to the man who has more control over my body than I want to admit, I brace my hands against the porcelain edge of the sink and breathe. Deep. Slow.
My knuckles are white, my grip too tight.
Why does he make me this nervous? Why does being near him feel like standing too close to something dangerous and magnetic at the same time?
I lift my head and stare at my reflection, heart racing.
He’s a pull I don’t understand. A gravity I can’t escape.
I draw in another steadying breath, grip the first-aid kit tighter than necessary, and step back into the living room. He hasn’t moved. Not an inch.
His gaze lifts the moment he sees me, locking onto mine with that same quiet intensity. It sends a shiver straight down my spine. I close the distance between us slowly, deliberately.
“May I?” I ask softly, gesturing toward his face.
