He hesitates, like he’s about to argue, but then his shoulders drop. He moves to the kitchen table, lowering himself onto the chair with a quiet, wary obedience that makes my chest squeeze tight.
The cut’s still bleeding. Not gushing, but enough that the sight of it makes me wince. I glance around, scanning the counters. “Where is the first-aid kit?”
He blinks at me. “We don’t have one.”
I’m not surprised by that. “Okay. Where are the Band-Aids?”
Knox grimaces slightly, then says again, “We don’t have any.”
I pause mid-reach, then slowly turn my head toward him. “You don’t—have—any Band-Aids?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “We don’t need them.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
Of course, they don’t have Band-Aids. These men were washing dishes withlaundry soapwhen I first got here. Half of their towels have holes in them. And now, apparently medical supplies are too much to ask for.
“Okay,” I mutter, marching toward the sink. “Fine. We’ll improvise.”
Behind me, Knox chuckles low under his breath, the sound warm and rough. “Yes, ma’am.”
I try not to smile as I grab a clean dish towel and run it under cool water.
When I turn back, he’s watching me with that soft intensity again—like he doesn’t know what to do with someone taking care of him.
I pull out the chair next to him and sit down, setting the damp towel on the table between us. Knox’s eyes flick to the empty space in his lap, then back to me. The disappointment that I didn’t sit in his lap is subtle, but it’s there—the faint tightening of his jaw, the tiny sigh he doesn’t quite let out.
Good.
He can suffer a little longer.
Knox rests his injured hand palm-up on the table, obedient now, watching me carefully with his dark green eyes. It makes something twist low in my stomach. I gently take his hand, my fingers brushing over the rough calluses of his palm before pressing the towel against the cut. He doesn’t flinch, but his breath catches.
“See?” I mutter, focusing on the wound instead of his face. “This is why normal people keep first-aid kits.”
Knox chuckles softly. “We’re not exactly normal people, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I mumble, holding his hand a little firmer when he tries to pull away too soon.
The bleeding slows under the pressure, pink smearing faintly across the white towel. His hand dwarfs mine—warm, steady, patient—and even though I’m still angry, I can’t ignore the way my pulse stumbles when his fingers curl slightly, brushing over the side of my wrist.
Knox shifts, thumb brushing my wrist again. “I’m good now,” he murmurs.
I glare at him. “No, you’re not. Hold still.”
“Skyla—”
“I said hold still.” I press the towel more firmly against his thumb, biting back my irritation. “I swear alphas would let a limb rot off before they’d actually ask for help.”
Something slips through the air—faint, like a ripple of warmth brushing the edge of my mind. Annoyance. Heavy and unmistakablyhis.
I snap my head up, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t start with me. You need to be patient.”
Knox frowns, brows knitting. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you—” The words stall in my throat. Because he’s right. He didn’tsayanything.
But Ifeltit.
