Page 125 of Broken Blades

I dabbed at the blood with gentle pressure, cleaning the wound in slow, careful strokes. He never took his eyes off me. Never moved. Just sat there letting me care for him with a stillness that felt almost reverent.

"You should ice it," I said quietly. "The bruising will be worse tomorrow."

"I've had worse."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't take care of yourself."

His jaw worked. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or something softer I couldn't name.

I reached for the antiseptic. Our knees touched. The contact sent heat spiraling through my body that had nothing to do with first aid. "This might sting."

He nodded once.

I pressed the cotton swab gently against the cut. His hand came up—instinctive, defensive—and caught my wrist like he needed the anchor.

"Keep going," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I did. Finished cleaning the wound, applied a small bandage, smoothed it down with trembling fingers.

When I looked up, his face was inches from mine. Close enough I could count his eyelashes. Close enough I felt his breath warm against my lips. Neither of us moved.

I cleaned the blood carefully, fingertips brushing his jaw with feather-light touches I didn't trust myself to make firmer.

He stared at my mouth. Not hiding it. Not pretending. Just watching my lips move with an intensity that made heat curl low in my stomach, spreading through my limbs like wildfire. Every muscle in his body pulled tight. Coiled. Controlled. He sat so still I could see the effort it took—hands gripping his thighs hard enough his knuckles went white, jaw locked, breathing shallow and uneven. Trying so hard not to move. Not to ruin this moment.

But I felt it radiating off him in waves—the restraint barely holding, the hunger he couldn't quite bury, the desperate need to grab me and pull me in and devour me until neither of us remembered our own names.

My hand trembled against his face.

His eyes darkened.

"Wyatt…"

The word came out barely a whisper. Shaky. Uncertain. Not a question. Not a protest.

Something else entirely—permission, maybe, or surrender, or the kind of reckless want that terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.

His hand came up slowly, fingers threading through my hair with devastating gentleness. Cradling the back of my head like I might break. Like I was something precious he'd been waiting his whole life to touch.

"Tell me to stop." His voice came out rough, strained, barely controlled. "Tell me you don't want this and I will."

I should have.

I knew I should have.

This wasn't part of the arrangement. Wasn't part of the plan. Wasn't supposed to feel this real or this dangerous or this absolutely inevitable.

But when I opened my mouth, what came out wasn't stop. "I can't."

His thumb brushed my cheekbone. Slow. Reverent. "Can't what?"

My breath hitched. "Tell you to stop."

Something shifted in his expression—relief and hunger and something darker, more possessive, more irrevocable. "Good."

He pulled me forward. And kissed me like he'd been starving for it.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to break the kiss but not enough to let me go. His hands stayed buried in my hair, fingers trembling against my scalp with a restraint I could feel unraveling.