Page 109 of Nanny and the Beast

He shakes his head and opens a cabinet.

“I still think you should call a doctor,” I say.

“It looks worse than it actually is, Emma,” he says softly. “They’re not that deep.”

I stand. I want to move closer toward him and examine the wounds myself, but something stops me.

As he sifts through the cabinet, I catch glimpses of dark glass vials and sealed sachets. I watch with curiosity as he takes somegreen herbs in a granite mortar and adds a few drops of liquid from a vial.

He grips the edge of the cabinet for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he walks to the bar cart and pours himself a drink.

“What is that?” I ask him.

“Alcohol,” he says. “It helps with the pain.”

“I meant the mortar and pestle,” I say.

He throws his drink back and grabs a water bottle. He returns to the mortar and pours water into it before grinding the mixture.

“It’s a herbal remedy for wound healing,” he says.

“I didn’t peg you as someone who’d go for herbal remedies,” I say.

He glances over at me.

“What will it take for you to leave?” he says.

I walk closer toward him, ignoring the heat radiating from his body. I take the pestle from his hand and take over. I feel him watching me as I grind the paste.

“Who gave this to you?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

I recognized one of the vials. He gave it to his nephew on my first day here. I didn’t think much about that incident with everything else going on, but I think about it now.

“You know, you’re nothing like how I expected you to be,” I say, watching the color of the paste darken as I continue grinding it.

“I wish I could say the same about you,” he replies, pouring himself another drink. “But unfortunately, you’re exactly how I thought you would be. If anything, you’re worse.”

“How am I worse?” I ask.

The attraction between us has a pulse. Tendrils of heat wrap around my body, softly knocking the breath from my lungs.

“It’s better if I keep those thoughts to myself,” he says.

“Maybe I want to hear it,” I say, turning toward him.

The intensity of his gaze catches me off guard. It heats my skin and sets my heart ablaze. Blood rushes to my cheeks as our eyes remain locked.

It feels like a bond that transcends time and space.

“You’re not ready for it, Emma,” he says. “You’re not ready for me.”

“I want to decide that for myself,” I say, turning away from him.

I wash my hands and then pick up the salve. He watches my every movement as I walk toward him. I scoop some of the green mixture into my hand and lift it toward one of his cuts.

“You really shouldn’t be here right now, Emma.” I feel his throaty whisper low in my belly.

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