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“Get it off!”

“We don’t know what happens if you do.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

His control snaps.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE THE ONE WHO MIGHT BLEED.”

I stop.

So does he.

The apartment goes silent.

His chest rises and falls. His hand still circles my wrist. The anger in his face disappears almost immediately. He looks wrecked. “I’m sorry.”

I stare at him. “You care if I bleed?”

His brows pull together. “What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course I care.”

I look at the extra finger. Then touch the scar across the knuckle.

August sucks in a breath.

I freeze. “You felt that.”

“No.”

I touch it again slowly.

His jaw clenches.

“You did.”

“Lenora.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“What does it feel like?”

He looks at me.

And suddenly I know. Heat curls low in my stomach.

“Interesting.”

“Don’t.”