“All right,” I murmured.
He tilted his head and gestured to my cardigan. “Mind if I take a look now?”
“Oh. Right.” I swallowed hard. “Sure.”
I slipped out of the cardigan and tossed it on the bed while simultaneously trying to forget the bed was even there, mere inches away from where Julian and I were standing. Then I turned slightly, presenting him with my back, and reached for the thin strap of my tank top. My hands trembled as I pulled it down, letting the fabric fall away just enough to expose my left shoulder blade and upper back.
For a moment, Julian didn't move. Didn't speak. Then I felt the whisper-light touch of his fingers against my spine, precise and unbearably slow. Goosebumps flared across my skin, and I had to bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from gasping.
“There's already a bit of bruising,” Julian muttered, his voice rougher than before. I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me, though. “Here, and here.” His fingers traced the edges of the injury with a gentleness that seemed impossible from the same hands that had knocked Kane unconscious with one punch. “Does this hurt?”
He pressed carefully against the worst of it, and I winced. “Yeah, a bit.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
His hand stilled, resting flat against my back now, warm through the thin barrier of my bra strap. “Can I move this so I can see the spot right under it?”
Every nerve in my body screamednoas every ounce of logic reminded me who he was yet again. He was the brother of the man who might’ve killed my sister. He was also the man who might’ve been following me, sending me threatening texts, and breaking into my dorm to stop me from looking into her death.
I knew I should pull away. Tug my top back up, say I was fine, and put some much-needed distance between us. But I didn't. I just stood there instead, feeling the tantalizing heat of his palm against my skin and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.
“Yes,” I finally said, voice barely working. “You can move it.”
This is fine,I told myself, sucking in a deep breath.Totally fine.
Not at all the most confusing, guilt-inducing, terrifying, and somehow thrilling moment of my entire life.
Julian pushed the bra strap down slowly, the backs of his fingers brushing my skin. It was such a simple touch, yet it made something electric spark through my veins.
He dropped his hand and leaned in, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath against my bare shoulder. “Did that hurt?”
And did you like it?I imagined him saying next. Shame instantly tangled up with desire deep inside me, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.
“No,” I finally murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
It wasn’t pain that was making my heart race. It washim. His touch. The crazy contradiction of danger and comfort I felt when he was close to me.
If he was a monster, why did it feel so easy to breathe when he was near?
If he was really involved in the coverup surrounding Cal’s death, why did his touch feel like the first thing that made sense to me in months?
God, I hated myself for even thinking it. But now that those thoughts were in my head, I couldn’t stop my brain from racing down that dark track.
If Julian was actually involved with all of the Dionysus Club's sordid activities, and he knew what happened to Cal, why wouldhe help me like this? Why risk being seen with me, defending me, and bringing me home when it could land him in trouble with his colleagues? It didn’t make sense.
Unless it was all part of some plan. Maybe he was trying to get close to me, gain my trust, figure out what I knew. But if that were true, why had he looked so genuinely concerned about my shoulder? And why were his hands so gentle with me?
You're being an idiot, Violet,I told myself for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.You can't trust him. Can't let your guard down just because he punched one asshole for you.
Unfortunately, my traitorous body didn't seem to care about logic.
Besides… maybe Iwaswrong about him after all. Because the man standing behind me right now, checking my injuries with a touch so careful it made my chest ache, really didn't seem like someone who'd stalk me and write a threat in blood on my wall.
Then again, psychopaths were good at seeming normal, weren't they? That was part of what made them so dangerous.
A low, frustrated groan rose in my throat, threatening to escape my mouth.
