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"Stop pulling your hand away; you don't need an infection," he barks irritatedly and grabs my wrist in his palm.
Why does he even care?
But before I manage to finish that thought, I feel a decisive energy strike, as if a thunderbolt, emerging from his hand to mine as he grabs my wrist and pulls it closer to him to wash the wound.
He jerks his hand right away, looking at me with shock on his face, somehow, concern mixed with terror.
What the hell was that?
Raphael lowers his gaze to my wrist and continues washing the wound again silently until blood isn't streaming anymore. And then he gently and carefully puts on the cheesecloth, winding it around my wrist as a bandage. No thunderbolts anymore, but I see that he's trying to touch my hand only through the fabric.
The shiver from his touches fills my body with a warm and pleasant feeling. Even though this man is a jerk, his hands are unbelievably soft and gentle.
After the bandage is on, he lets me go right away, and the magic is over.
"Mr. Darrington, I'm sorry about the vase," I start to plead. "I'll refund you from my salary, please don't..."
"You are not suitable for this job, Miss Burton." He cuts me off in the middle of the sentence and gets up, extending a hand to help me.
"Wait, what?" I ask regretfully, getting up, even though I heard him perfectly.
"Please leave," he repeats, not looking into my eyes anymore, and then walks to the main door and opens it.
"No, please, I really need this job, I..."
"Get out!" he barks, not loudly but still scary. I startle in fear.
I feel the tears coming, and my eyes become blurry. I run out of the house, not looking away and without saying goodbye.
Chapter Three
Raphael
"Who was that girl?" Beatrice walks out of the kitchen, still wearing her coat.
"I told you to walk with him until I finish the interview!" I bark at my sister for being so irresponsible.
Baltazar, our dog of five years, was trained to smell humans so he could notify us about the danger. He wouldn't bite Katie, but he definitely scared her a lot, which was why she hurt her hand.
"Hey, I'm not your servant, don't talk to me like that!" she yells at me in response.
My sister isn't a woman who will stay silent if someone's being rude to her, even if it's me. She always knows how to respond.
"It's so freaking cold today, I couldn't walk with Bally any longer." She speaks again, this time calmer, talking about our dog in her usual gentle manner, calling himBally.
I run my hand through my hair, realizing just now how insulting I was with Katie. And she doesn't even know why. She knows nothing except that I'm the mean, arrogant new owner of this mansion.
"Who was that girl?" Beatrice asks once again, but I ignore her question.
I walk to the kitchen and pour a glass of the whiskey I was cleaning Katie's wound with. And then I drink it to the bottom in a couple of gulps.
"Raphael, what's going on?" My sister follows me, and this time I see interest on her face and genuine concern.
She's always worried about me, even though she's my little sister, so I'm the one who is supposed to protect her, especially after our parents' death. And I do—she never felt insecure—but it seems to me that she always was wiser than I am, acting more deliberately, while I'm always impulsive.
"She's the one" is the only thing I say before drinking another glass. My sister's face changes in a second, from concerned to terrified.
"The...one?" she clarifies uncertainly as if she misheard me. "The one like...like the one?"
