I don’t.
The fabric is soaked with blood, but that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the lean, defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the V of his hips disappearing into his jeans. His skin is smooth and golden in the harsh fluorescent light.
My mouth goes dry.
I bite my tongue to force myself to return to reality. I should be scared of him, not admiring his body. I should also remind myself that he’s eighty percent jerk.
I grab supplies, my hands moving on autopilot. The wound is a deep slash across his ribs, still bleeding freely. It will require stitches. Maybe even surgery if it’s deep enough.
“This looks bad,” I say, cleaning around the edges. My fingers brush his skin, and he tenses.
“It’s not that bad.”
“You were just stabbed. It’s bad.” I work quickly, disinfecting the wound. I’m acutely aware of how close I’m standing to him, how his eyes are fixed on my face.
“Well, I have a pretty nurse looking after me, so I should be fine.”
I glance up at him, wondering how he can joke at a time like this, but I return my attention to the wound, pressing gauzeagainst it to stem the bleeding. Except the bleeding has already slowed. Too much. Too fast.
It was the same for his last injury, only that was his femoral artery. It was still bleeding, but it wasn’t as heavy as it could and should have been. I hadn’t paid too much attention, but now after seeing him fight—
My hands still.
I watch as the edges of the wound begin to knit together. Not completely. Not instantly. But enough that I can see it happening. Skin pulling toward skin. The flesh mending itself right in front of me, faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
What the hell? How is this possible?
My grandmother used to tell stories about men who weren’t men at all but beasts wearing human skin. My mother said she was delusional.
Maybe she wasn’t.
I look up slowly and find Grayson watching me. There’s wariness in his eyes now. Caution.
I know he’s waiting for me to ask. To demand an explanation. To freak out.
I press my lips together to hold in the questions at the tip of my tongue. I don’t know how this is humanly possible. It shouldn’t be.
However, I learned a long time ago to keep my observations to myself. And right now, some quiet, self-preserving part of me understands that asking means knowing. And knowing means I have to do something with it, report it, explain it, act on it. I am barely holding my life together as it is. I don’t have room for an answer like this.
Instead, I finish cleaning the wound in silence and apply a bandage even though he probably doesn’t need one. Then I turn away to put the supplies back, my mind racing.
His hand catches my wrist.
“So you’re not even going to ask?” His voice is quiet. Almost disappointed.
I know what he’s referring to. The wound that’s healing way too fast. The strength he showed in that fight. The speed.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and steady. His thumb rests against my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating.
I pull my hand back and meet his eyes. “Yeah. Are you going to pay for the damage to the roof of my car?”
He stares at me. Just stares.
Then he bursts into laughter.
The sound fills the small exam room, rich and genuine. His whole face transforms when he laughs, the hard edges softening. He looks younger. Almost carefree. And devastatingly attractive.
My traitorous stomach flips.
