"It's a considerable gash that needs proper cleaning and binding," he corrected, his grey eyes intent on her wound. "And I shall worry until I know you are safe."
The words were delivered in that low, intense tone that made her stomach perform elaborate acrobatics. She watched his face as he worked, noting the furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his jaw clenched when he saw the full extent of the cut, the gentle care with which he handled her injured wrist.
"There's a medical box in the desk drawer," he said, glancing up at her. "My father was paranoid about accidents in the library as he had seen too many paper cuts from ancient manuscripts, he claimed."
He retrieved the box and returned to his position before her, cleaning the wound with an efficiency that spoke of experience. The sting of the alcohol made her hiss through her teeth, and his hand tightened on hers apologetically.
"Sorry," he murmured. "Almost done."
"Where did you learn all this?" she asked, needing distraction from both the pain and the intimacy of having him tend to her.
"Boxing matches at Oxford. Someone had to tend to the fools who thought bare-knuckle fighting after too much port was brilliant sport." A slight smile curved his lips at the memory. "I was usually one of the fools, but I was also surprisingly good at taking care of it afterward."
"You boxed at Oxford?" She tried to picture him younger, wilder, throwing punches in some underground ring, and found the image disturbingly attractive.
"Among other inadvisable activities." He began wrapping her wrist with proper bandages, his touch remaining gentle despite his obvious competence. "I was quite a trouble maker before my father's death forced me to become respectable."
"I can't imagine you as anything but rigidly proper."
He glanced up at her, and something heated flashed in his eyes. "Can't you? Even after our... discussion of Cicero?"
Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered that 'discussion'; the way his mouth had felt against hers, the way he'd pressed her against the table, the way she'd practically begged him to kiss her. They'd been maintaining careful distance ever since, both pretending that moment of madness hadn't happened, though she'd caught him watching her sometimes with an expression that made her insides melt.
"That was an aberration," she said, though her voice came out breathier than intended. "Brought on by excessive exposure to Latin rhetoric."
"Of course." He finished binding her wrist, but didn't immediately release her hand. His thumb brushed across her palm, a gesture that might have been accidental if not for the way his breathing had changed. "How does it feel?"
"Better," she managed, though she wasn't entirely referring to her wrist. "Thank you."
He should have stood then, should have put proper distance between them,but instead he remained kneeling before her, her hand still cradled in both of his. The fire crackled behind him, casting his face in gold and shadow, and the storm outside seemed to intensify, as if nature itself was providing dramatic accompaniment to the tension building between them.
"You frightened me," he admitted quietly, his thumbs now definitely, deliberately stroking her palm in a way that sent shivers racing up her arm. "When I heard the crash, when I saw the blood... I thought..."
"You thought what?"
"I thought something had happened to you. Something serious. And I realised that the idea of you being hurt was..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "Unbearable."
"Adrian," she whispered, his name a plea and warning combined.
"I know," he said roughly. "I know all the reasons this is impossible. You're my employee, you're a respectable woman, I'm still haunted by Juliette's betrayal, society already gossips about us; I know every rational argument against this. But Eveline..."
The way he said her name, like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside him, made her free hand reach out almost of its own accord to touch his face. He turned into her palm, his eyes closing briefly as if her touch brought both pain and relief.
"Books are my shield," she found herself confessing, the intimacy of the moment and the pain in her wrist somehow loosening her tongue. "They never laugh at me for being too clever, never betray my trust, never make me feel like I should be less than I am. They've been my only true companions for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to want something more."
His eyes opened, fixing on hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "And now?"
"Now I can't concentrate on ancient Greek because I'm wondering what you're thinking. Now I catalogue love poetry and imagine your voice reading it. Now I lie awake at night remembering that kiss and wondering if I imagined how it made me feel."
"You didn't imagine it," he said roughly, rising from his kneeling position but only to lean over her, his hands braced on the arms of her chair, caging her in. "I've relived that moment a thousand times. I've tried to convince myself it was temporary madness, that it meant nothing, but then I see you bent over some ancient text with ink on your fingers and that little furrow between your brows when you're concentrating, and all I can think about is..."
Thunder crashed directly overhead, making them both jump, and then laugh shakily at their reaction. But the shared laughter died quickly, replaced by something far more dangerous as they realized how close they were, how his face was mere inches from hers, how the firelight was dancing in his eyes and making them look more gold than grey.
"You said this couldn't happen again," she reminded him, though her resolve was weakening with every second that passed.
"I say a lot of things," he replied, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "I said I'd maintain professional boundaries. I said I'd stay away from the library when you were working. I said I'd forget how you tasted, how you felt pressed against me, how you made those little sounds when I..."
"Adrian," she interrupted, her cheeks burning. "You can't say such things."
