He gives a single nod. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I drag the coffee table closer and perch on the edge of it, settling myself between his spread legs. The proximity is dizzying. Too close. Or maybe not close enough. I open the kit with careful hands, my pulse loud in my ears.
And then I hesitate.
Because this means touching him. Really touching him. This man who feels like danger wrapped in temptation, who looks like sin and smells faintly of smoke and something darker.
My hand hovers mid-air, gauze damp with saline, when his fingers curl around my wrist, warm, firm, unmistakably deliberate.
“Go on, then,” he murmurs, drawing my hand closer to his face.
The contact sends a spark through me, sharp and electric. I swallow hard and focus on the cut above his eyebrow, forcing myself into nurse mode, into control. I clean the wound carefully, methodically, doing everything I can to avoid his eyes.
It’s useless.
I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, tracking every movement, every breath.
When I’m satisfied the cut is clean, I speak quietly, mostly to steady myself. “All clean. I’ll put a couple of Steri-Strips on, just to make sure it stays closed.”
I do as I say, my fingers gentle, precise. Then I set the used gauze aside and reach for a fresh one, acutely aware of how little space there is between us.
How easily I could tip forward.
How easily I could fall.
And how dangerous it would be if I did.
Without thinking, I lift my hand and gently cup his chin, angling his face so the light catches the split in his lip.
The reaction is instant.
Electricity tears through me at the simple contact, sharp and consuming. But it’s his eyes that undo me, icy, knowing, unflinching. As if they can see straight through skin and bone, straight into the parts of me I don’t let anyone touch. Commanding my body. My breath. My will.
I force myself to inhale. I have to. Being this close to him feels like standing too near a fire, like the air itself is thinner around him.
“Try not to move,” I murmur, my voice barely steady. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I clean the blood from his chin and lower lip with careful strokes, focusing on the task, on anything but the way I can feel his breath ghosting warm against my fingers. Then I feel his hands, settling at the backs of my calves, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles. Familiar. Possessive.
I’m melting beneath his touch, beneath the weight of his gaze, beneath the dangerous gravity of his presence.
“You’re the only person I want hurting me,” he says quietly.
The words land like a confession. Or a challenge.
“I have so many questions, Khai,” I reply, biting my bottom lip as I try to stay focused, to keep my hands steady.
“I have so many answers I can’t give you,” he murmurs back. His eyes lock onto mine again, holding me captive, daring me to look away.
I pull back suddenly, breaking free before I lose myself completely. “I need something,” I say, rising to my feet. “Something honest.Something not cryptic.” I pace a few steps, my pulse racing. “You seem to know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”
The words spill out faster now. “How did you find my address? My contact details, those are confidential. How did you know where I like to park my car? Or that I love magnolias?”
I stop, breath shaky, thoughts spiralling.
“I needsomething, Khai.”
My gaze drops to the floor, anywhere but him, trying to focus on anything other than the thunder of my heartbeat.
