Page 80 of Mile High Ruin

“You were going to.”

“I was thinking.”

“That is often worse.”

The amusement in her face softens something in mine. For the first time since the attack, the tension around her shoulders has eased.

The hospital room is quiet now. Anton and the others have moved into the corridor to speak with security, leaving us alone. I sit on the edge of the examination bed with my shirt still off, the clean dressing stark against my skin.

Sloane approaches slowly. “You should put something on.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Her eyes drop briefly to my chest.

There. That tiny hesitation.

I feel it like a hand.

“Because you’re in a hospital gown.”

“A compelling argument.”

She rolls her eyes and steps closer.

There’s a small cut above my eyebrow. I had forgotten about it until she notices.

Her hand rises. “Hold still.”

I do.

Her thumb brushes carefully beneath my eyebrow, tracing the edge of the cut. The touch is barely there, but it affects me more violently than everything that transpired between us on the plane. Perhaps because there’s no anger behind it. She’s simply touching me because she wants to see whether I’m hurt.

Her fingertip moves over the skin again. “You’ve got a cut here.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“You seem to have an extremely flexible definition of injury.”

Her thumb moves once more, and I close my eyes. The reaction is involuntary. I haven’t let anyone touch my face like this in years. Not gently, not without wanting something.

When I open my eyes again, she’s looking at me differently.

Softer.

Too soft. There’s no anger in there like before, when she accused me of wanting her because she was easy. God, how wrong she was.

I should move away.

Instead, I reach for her waist. “Sloane.”