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“How…?”
“Shock and alcohol can block out a lot,” he murmurs. “You’re going to hurt tomorrow.”
He drops the piece of glass into the trash beside the bed and trades the tweezers for the nail clippers. “Now, hold still. I’m going to check under your nails.”
“I already—”
“Trouble.” The softness remains, but the steel beneath snaps my mouth shut. “Let me do this. Please.”
The please does me in. I’ve never heard Orien say please before. Not to anyone, but especially not to me.
So, I sit still and let him take my hand again, his fingers warm as he checks beneath each nail. He finds two more tiny slivers of glass, which he removes with the same careful attention, then he clips and files my nails into smooth ovals. When he finishes, he places my hand back on the stuffed fox and lifts my left hand to give it the same level of attention.
It should be embarrassing. It should make me want to pull away, to insist I can take care of myself and don’t need to be handled as if I’m fragile.
Instead, that awareness that’s been building since the first day we met sinks its hooks deeper.
I study him as he focuses on my hand. He has a small scar at the corner of his mouth, a thin white line that appears when he frowns. His eyelashes are longer than they have any right to be, dark fans on his cheekbones as he studies each nail before clipping it.
He’s beautiful in the way dangerous things sometimes are. The kind of beauty that fills you with the desire to reach out even when you know you shouldn’t.
The thought comes unbidden, rising from the back of my mind, where I’ve been trying to separate myself from the persona I’m playing. But none of this is an act. It never really has been, if I’m honest with myself, and I don’t have the energy to lie right now.
He finishes with the file and sets it aside with the clippers. “There. All done.”
I inspect my hands. They’re neat enough to pass for freshly manicured. “Thank you.”
He lifts the untouched glass of water and wraps my fingers around it. “Drink. All of it.”
I do as he asks, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat.
When I finish, he takes the empty glass and replaces it with the food container. “Eat. Your body needs more than whiskey and fried food.”
The container holds chicken and rice, steam still rising from it in gentle curls. My stomach turns over at the sight, nausea rising at the thought of food.
“Just a few bites,” he commands, brooking no argument. “It’ll help with the crash.”
He’s right. I know he is. The alcohol’s already starting to wear off, leaving a dull headache in its wake, and the adrenaline crash isn’t far behind. If I don’t get food into my system soon, the headache will intensify, and my energy will crater.
So I take the container and a fork and make myself eat. The chicken is tender, the rice flavored with garlic and herbs, and despite my lack of appetite, I immediately go back for another bite.
I work my way through the food under Orien’s quiet scrutiny. By the time I reach the halfway point, the tension in his shoulders eases. “Better?”
I nod.
“Good.” He smooths a hand over my hair, and I lean into his touch, suddenly needing more of it.
A whimper rises from the back of my throat, and I set the food aside to lean forward and capture Orien’s mouth in a desperate kiss.
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For a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond, his lips still beneath mine. Then his hand comes up to cup my cheek, but instead of pulling me closer, he draws back.
With a whine of protest, I follow him, closing the gap as I try to kiss him again.
His hand firms on my jaw, holding me still. “Hey, look at me.”
I do. My chest is heaving.
