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Don’t crack.
Don’t crack now.
I shiver, voice small. “This isn’t your fight.”
“No? Already drew blood.” Reese flashes a gory palm, dripping glass shards, blood, and cherry juice.
I hiss.
Idiot.
“Sit.” Pretending I don’t feel the flex of shoulder muscles, I man-handle him onto the vanity stool, forcing him to sit while I grab the first aid kit I found when I was snooping under the sink.
I should’ve researched chemical bombs instead of penthouse parachutes.
I’m going to have to blast my way out of this nightmare.
Reese doesn’t budge.
All those major-league muscles still while he perches obediently on the pink velvet pouf, following my every move with a subtle, hopeful sparkle. I have to keep reminding myself.
None of that belongs to me.
But, his real mate would take care of him.
Right?
I dry swallow.
Have to keep up the act.
Kneeling with a pair of tweezers, I spread his sticky fingers, biting my lip and gently plucking glass slivers from the mess of his skin.
It was always like this.
Reese would hit until his hands bled. I’d pull him into the dugout to disinfect and bandage popped blisters, but the next day, he’d be bleeding again. Now he has thick calluses after years of practice, but under the fresh cuts, even those are red and peeling.
I click my tongue, wishing he’d learned to take better care of himself. “You’ve been working too hard.”
His fingers twitch. “You…”
Shit.
I’m the idiot who can’t keep her roles straight.
I’m supposed to be Reese’s mate, not his trainer.
“What?” I toss my hair, channeling Serafina’s rich-bitch confidence. “I looked up the pack after you tried to invade my penthouse.”
I clean his cuts as fast as I can without hurting him, sponging off the spilled liquor, dabbing on ointment, and wrapping his broad, hot palm while I resist the stupid urge to pet his fingers.
Hell, the urge to rest my head on his thigh.
To wrap around him like a cobra, clinging to the soft warmth I’ve always craved.
I balance on the tightrope.
Just enough concern to play his mate.
