Page 107

“No.”

“Shame.”

Fionn pulls his hoody up and over his head and drops it over the arm of the chair. “Probably doesn’t need a stitch, but it’ll need to be cleaned.”

When he holds it out between us, I take a quick look at the dried blood on the side, the sight of it ugly and dark against his skin.

“Sit down,” I tell him. “Were you this difficult as a child, too?”

Fionn shrugs. “Depends which nanny you ask.”

“So, your ma never patched you up after a fall?”

“My mother didn’t handle blood, noise, or children before her noon Bloody Mary.”

“Her loss,” I mutter. “Now sit.”

Fionn stares at me for a beat, his expression blank, then lowers into the seat.

“I’ll do as I’m told,” he says. “This once.”

Him seated should be a victory. It isn’t, because Fionn Harrington taking orders still comes across as control.

His knees are spread, his T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, and he watches me as I open cabinets and find antiseptic, gauze, and a dressing.

I tuck my hair behind my ears, turn away, and wash my hands at the sink.

“Right, give it here.”

He holds out his hand again, and I slide mine beneath it, inspecting the damage as we connect. His skin is warm against my palm, his fingers heavy and relaxed as I angle it toward the light.

There’s no grease under his nails. No torn cuticles from yard work. No rough evidence of labor that stays no matter how hard a man scrubs.

Despite that, his knuckles are marked from training, the tendons firm under my touch, the bones broad enough to make damage look easy. These aren’t workingman’s hands, but they were built for violence.

He lets me hold his wrist steady while I work. His pulse stays slow under my thumb, and the whole time his eyes stay on my face.

I tear open an antiseptic wipe and drag it over the cut. “You’re lucky there’s no glass in it.”

“Would you have sucked it out?”

When I look up, our gazes clash.

“Try sterilizing tweezers and shoving them in deep.”

Fionn chuckles under his breath, and I continue cleaning the cut. “Nearly done.”

“Oh, we’re far from done, little wild thing.”

Little wild thing.

I take a steadying breath, tear off a thick square of gauze, fold it once, and press it over the cut before taping it into place.

Anticipation moves under my skin. We can pretend I came here for this, but the truth is, we both want what we shouldn’t.

I smooth the last strip of tape down, and his uninjured hand closes around my wrist. When I look up again, his face is close enough for me to smell the rain on his skin.

“You’ll live,” I tell him. “Which is devastating news for everyone.”