Page 10
“Not on me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
The bastard looks pleased with himself.
“Your hand, little flower.”
I stiffen. “Don’t call me that.”
“Would you prefer bleeding woman?”
“Wren.”
He considers this. “Wren.”
The way he says my name, low and deliberate, does something terribly inconvenient to my knees.
I offer him my injured hand before I can think better of it.
His expression changes.
All traces of amusement vanish as he studies the shallow cut across my palm. His fingers are enormous, easily swallowing mine, but his touch is so careful I barely feel the pressure.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
His jaw tightens.
“Who hurt you?”
“You did. Technically. Your statue had a sharp edge.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“That is not the injury I mean.”
Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he closes his other hand over my palm.
Heat pulses between us.
I gasp.
“Hey, what are you…”
The warmth spreads through my fingers, gentle and soothing. A faint crimson glow escapes between his hands before fading.
He releases me.
The cut is gone.
I stare at my palm.
Turn it over.
Examine every inch.
Nothing.
