My heart beats hard.I should be scared.Maybe I am?But beneath the startle, beneath the shock, something else rises.Something hot and reckless and impossibly sad.
He did that to the wall because he would rather break stone than raise his voice at me.
I take one step forward.
His eyes open.“Don’t,” he says.
Now I hear the plea, and I stop.Not because he orders me to.Because he asks.
Blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“It’s nothing.”
“I am really starting to hate that word.”
His mouth flattens.“Briana...”
“Don’t fucking Briana me.Sit down.”
He blinks.It’s possibly the most satisfying thing that has happened all week.“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
For a second, neither of us moves.Then, slowly, like he can’t believe he is obeying me, Knox walks to one of the stools and sits.
The stool looks ridiculous beneath him, and I almost smile.Almost.
I grab the first aid kit from beneath the bar.My hands are steadier now.Purpose does that, it gives fear a job until it forgets to exist.
When I step toward him, Knox stiffens, and I stop immediately.
“May I?”I ask.
His eyes drop to the kit, then to my face.The silence stretches until finally, he nods once.
I move closer, but not too close.Just close enough to smell him.That’s a big fucking mistake.
Knox smells like smoke, leather, and something warm beneath it.Not cologne.Not soap.Something wild.Earth after rain.Heat beneath skin.It wraps around me before I can prepare myself, and my body reacts with humiliating interest.
I open the kit too quickly and drop a packet of gauze.Smooth, Briana.Very impressive.
Knox bends to pick it up at the same time I do, and our hands brush.Barely.A whisper of contact, but the world narrows to that single point.Heat snaps through me, bright and electric, and I suck in a breath.Knox goes utterly still, his fingers against mine, his eyes locked on my face.
For one suspended second, there’s no bar.No nightmares.No vampires.No broken little human.Only his hand, my pulse, and the dangerous thought of what it would feel like if he touched me on purpose.
Then Knox pulls back, as if contact burns.He grips the edge of the bar with his uninjured hand hard enough that the wood groans.
“Sorry,” he says.
I hate that he sounds like that.Like he has done something wrong by existing too close to my skin.
“It’s fine.”
