I stand, Waffles curled in my arms, and walk to the door.
My hand hovers over the deadbolt.
“What do you want?”
“To make sure you don’t bleed to death before I collect what you owe me.”
His honesty should sting. Instead, it’s almost... reassuring. At least he’s not pretending this is about kindness.
“How romantic.”
A pause. Then, “Open the door, Tessa.”
I do.
Because apparently, my survival instincts died somewhere between the brick and the broken window.
Rowan King stands in the hallway with a small black bag in one hand and an expression I can’t quite read. Still in that perfectly tailored coat.
But his eyes?—
His eyes go straight to my arm, and the careful mask slips for just a moment.
“It’s not that bad,” I say quickly.
He steps past me into the room without invitation, setting the bag on my desk and turning to face me with a clinical assessment.
“Close the door.”
I do, because arguing seems pointless now. He’s already here. Already in my space, taking up all the oxygen with his presence and his stupid, perfect posture.
Waffles growls, but protective in the way that only broken things know how to be.
Rowan glances at him, then back at me. “I told you to drop him off with a friend.”
I snort, some of my usual fire returning. “You assumed I had friends, King. It’s here or nowhere.”
His jaw tightens, just slightly, but I catch it.
“Bathroom,” he says, voice clipped.
“What?”
“Your arm. Bathroom. Now.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him where he can shove his orders but instead, I find myself walking to the tiny bathroom I share with Tiffany, Waffles still clutched against my chest.
The space becomes impossibly small with both of us in it. I can smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that makes me think of leather and cigars. He opens his bag with practiced efficiency, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, and medical tape. Real supplies. Professional-grade, not the bargain-brand bandages I’ve been using since undergrad.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the closed toilet seat.
“I can do this myself.”
“Sit. Down.”
His voice carries the kind of authority that makes federal judges pause mid-sentence. It’s probably the same tone he uses in moot court to demolish his opponents.
I sit.
