Page 4 of The Devil's Waltz

“Yeah,” she murmurs shakily, as if to herself, then reaches to press her fingers to the cut above her eye, wincing at the contact. She curses under her breath before finally looking at me. Her pulse is a jackhammer vibrating beneath her flushed skin as sweat dots her brow and upper lip. She swallows and exhales an uneven breath. “Thanks for your help.” Reaching for the door, seemingly about to walk away from this interaction, she sways on her feet.

I move without thinking, steadying her with my arm around her waist. “Easy there.”

She immediately tries to pull out of my grasp. “I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” I cut in smoothly, opening the door while keeping an arm around her. I guide her into what appears to be a small commercial kitchen.

She moves away from me as soon as she has a counter to grab on to.

I glance around, taking in the space that isn’t much larger than the alley we came from. The aroma of coffee lingers in the air along with something sweeter. It takes me a beat to realize the soft floral scent mixed with something like vanilla is coming fromher. “Is there a first aid kit around here somewhere?”

She hesitates, her eyes scanning my face. Calculating. “In the cupboard behind you,” she says at last.

I turn, open the small door, and find the white container. Pulling it down, I walk over and set it on the counter beside her before grabbing a barstool from around the high top counter in the middle of the room. I move it closer to her. “Sit.”

She blinks at me, then mutters, “I can do it myself,” before she turns around and pops the lid off, pulling wound care items out.

Her hands are shaking even worse now, making me frown. The drumbeat in her chest hasn’t calmed as it should. The danger from the demon attack is gone. But her breath is still shallow, her pulse uneven.

“Shit.” She stops what she’s doing, pressing her palms flat against the stainless steel countertop.

I watch her shoulders rise slowly as she inhales a deep breath. Her following exhale is uneven as she keeps her back to me and her shoulders remain tense. I think she’s having a panic attack.

“Hey,” I say in a gentle tone, shifting toward her again. “You’re okay.”

Her head bobs up and down in a subtle nod, but she says nothing.

“Will you let me help you?” The challenge of getting her to trust me at this moment is paramount. I keep my voice soft, my movements slow and careful, so as not to scare her.

Turning slowly, she takes a few seconds to meet my gaze. Without answering, she hands me a pre-packaged alcohol swab and sits on the barstool, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

I carefully open it and remove the disinfectant, unfolding it and moving to stand in front of the chair. “This is going to sting.”

She nods silently, her pulse ticking faster as she keeps her jaw clamped shut. When I dab her face, she stiffens but still says nothing. I make quickwork of cleaning the cut above her brow and toss the bloody wipe into the trash bin at the end of the counter. Then I rummage through the first aid kit until I find an antibiotic ointment and a bandage. I grab a fresh dish towel from the shelf above the sink, wet it, then clean the rest of her face as gently as I can. Her gaze is trained forward and her breathing evens out as I wipe away the blood that dripped down her cheek and neck. The front of her gray T-shirt is smeared crimson, and I frown before moving on to the cuts and scrapes on her arms, pausing to lean back and look at her as I toss the stained towel away. As I’m smoothing the ointment over the injury above her brow, I ask, “Do you know what happened tonight?”

Her gaze hardens, eyes narrowing. “Of course I do.”

I cock my head, trying to decipher the reasoning behind her tone. I need to tread carefully here. “Not your first demon attack, then?” I set the tube aside and cover the cut with a bandage. Luckily, it’s not deep enough to need stitches and has stopped bleeding.

She laughs, though the sound holds no humor. It’s short and bitter. “No. Clearly not yours, either. You wielded that obsidian blade like it was an extension of yourself.”

I purse my lips, grabbing a roll of gauze and wrapping it around her elbow to bandage the deeper lacerations there. Her fingers brush my ribs as she holds her arm out for me, and I ignore the way that simple, brief touch makes my skin tingle. Fuck. I need to focus on why I’m here. I can’t waste this opportunity—or fuck it up by getting caught up in human urges of…intimacy. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“Not really.”

I lower her arm slowly so it rests in her lap. “Care to tell me why you seem more upset than grateful that I just saved your life?”

She sits up straighter and sighs. “Besides the obvious?”

I arch a brow, fighting the pressure in my jaw to grind my molars.What angle is she playing?“I’m not sure what you mean.”

With a scoff, she says, “Are you really going to stand there and pretend you weren’t sent here on purpose?”

I stiffen. There’s absolutely no way she knows the truth. And yet, the tightness in my chest clamps down harder as I stare at the distrust in her eyes. I need to turn this around, flip the script and regain control of the narrative. I recover with a short laugh. “Sent here?” I shake myhead, feigning confusion. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, clenching her jaw briefly at the discomfort the movement must’ve caused her injuries. “Hmm. What’s your name, Mr. Right Place, Right Time?”

“Xander,” I say, offering her my hand.

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