Page 86 of Fatal Pattern

Tori placed the final Steri-Strip and smoothed the edges. Her knuckle brushed against the warm, uninjured skin of his shoulder.

Electric.

Her clinical detachment evaporated like morning mist. She wasn’t seeing Blade the patient sitting on the bathroom stool. This was Blade. Shirtless. Wounded. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body despite the air conditioning’s steady breeze.

His jaw flexed as he dragged air through clenched teeth. A lock of dark hair slipped loose and dangled across his forehead, careless, like the rest of him lived in fight mode and had no time for mirrors.

Those blue eyes locked on her. Pinning. Steady. She forgot the rhythm of her own lungs.

He took that knife because of her. Went down hard in the surf because of her. Willing to die—because of her.

Her thumb continued to caress the Steri-Strip. Checking her work, though it wasn’t about the wound anymore. The skin under her touch radiated heat. Alive, stubbornly alive, when earlier she’d thought she’d lose him to the dark.

Her gaze locked with his again, and his blue eyes sent heat climbing up her neck.

“I guess you’re all set,” she said.

He didn’t move. Neither did she. The air barely seemed to either.

Warmth surged up her throat, flushed her ears, and she didn’t dare breathe. Her lips parted. She tilted her face toward his. The space between them disappeared to nothing.

She jerked backward, the spell broken as abruptly as snapping fingers. No. Not like this. Not with blood under her fingernails and adrenaline still crackling through her veins. Words first. Understanding first. They’d been running from a stalker, chasing down a killer. They hadn’t even had time to figure out what this even meant.

She hopped off the counter, putting three feet of bathroom tile between them. Not nearly enough distance.

“You may want to wear a sling on that side for a while.” Her voice came out too bright. “Might heal faster.”

She cranked the faucet handle and let cold water rush over her hands. The soap dispenser required two pumps. Then three. The scrubbing gave her something to focus on besides the way Blade’s eyes had held hers.

The doorbell’s sharp chime shot through the moment like a rocket. Both of them flinched.

His hand reached for his hip, searching for a weapon that wasn’t there. He winced, palm pressing against the bandaged bicep.

“Stay here.” Blade shoved upright, shoulders tight, moving stiffly as he headed for the door.

Tori stayed rooted at the sink, soap sliding off her fingertips and dripping in tiny constellations onto the basin. Better she kept her mouth shut. No blurting out words that would only tangle things between them. Blade was her friend. Her partner. Nothing else. No matter how her heart insisted otherwise.

From the living room came the scrape of his tired voice. Another layered over it, female, precise in upbeat rhythm.

Harlee.

She’d almost forgotten she’d called her and asked her to come. Tori stepped out of the bathroom and almost walked into Harlee.

Harlee’s smirk stretched wider as her gaze bounced between them. “About time you two figured things out.”

Tori’s stomach dropped to somewhere around her ankles. Harlee wasn’t the only one who teased about what a great couple they’d be.

“Don’t start.” Blade’s voice came out rough, exhausted. “I’m in too much pain for jokes.”

The smugness melted from Harlee’s expression, replaced by genuine concern as she took in the extent of his injuries. “That looks bad. Are you okay? What happened?”

Blade braced a hand on the counter, shoulders tight. “Guy came at me on the beach. Sprinting out of the dark.”

Harlee’s eyes flared, and she stepped closer. “You need a hospital.”

He flicked a glance at Tori, lifted his bandaged arm with a wince. “Already handled.”

“It looked worse in the dark. Once we got up here, I realized the cuts weren’t deep.”