Page 13 of Hooked On Victor
Rose felt something twist low in her gut. She pressed it down ruthlessly.
She cleared her throat and turned away, dropping her bag onto the counter with a thump. The old laminate was stained and sticky under her glove when she opened the zipper.
She laid out gauze, antiseptic wipes, a suture kit she hoped she wouldn’t need. The smell of alcohol solution filled the tiny kitchen space, sharp enough to make her eyes sting.
She turned back and gestured at him with one gloved finger.
“Sit,” she ordered.
He obeyed, lowering himself onto the couch with visible effort, every movement careful, deliberate. His face stayed stony, but the muscle in his jaw jumped with pain.
She knelt in front of him, the floor cold even through the knees of her scrubs. She snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, the latex squealing as it stretched.
His thigh was a mess of stitches and old blood. She could see where the sutures puckered skin that was too swollen to close neatly. She pressed a gauze pad against it and he inhaled sharply through his teeth.
“Hold still,” she muttered.
“Don’t tell me you’re shy about touching me now,” he rasped.
She didn’t even look up. “You always this mouthy when someone’s trying to keep you from bleeding out?”
“Only when it’s you,” he murmured.
She paused for a second, the alcohol wipe hovering over his skin.
He noticed.
She forced her hand to move. The wipe slid over the stitches, pulling another hiss from him.
“You always stare this much?” she asked after a beat, not looking at him.
“Only when I can’t figure someone out.”
She applied a new layer of antibiotic cream, spreading it gently with her gloved fingers.
“There’s nothing to figure,” she said, voice too flat.
He shifted slightly forward. She felt the heat of his bare chest even without touching him.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rose.”
The name hit her like a slap.
He’d never used it before.
She froze for a fraction of a second, glove resting on the edge of his thigh.
His voice was low, pitched just for her ears, and rough with something that wasn’t pain.
She felt every hair on the back of her neck stand up, a slow electric crawl under her skin.
Damn him.
She sat back abruptly, peeling off the gloves with deliberate care, the latex snapping as she tossed them into her bag.
“Your dressing’s clean,” she said, voice clipped.
She stood, not meeting his eyes.
