Page 25 of Whispers of Helena
His head jerks up, his piercing gaze locking onto mine through the reflection. “Never said it was.”
Without a word, I step forward and extend the gin toward him. “Drink this.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, the contact brief but electric. He tilts the glass back, the sharp movement drawing my attention to the strong line of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows the burn.
I grab a towel from the wall and cross to the bed, spreading it over the dark quilt. With a flick of the switch, the bedside lamp cast a gentle light across the room. It’s larger than mine, the bed an imposing structure with four carved posts that nearly scrape the ceiling. The walls are bare, their starkness broken only by gray curtains draped over the windows. A simple dresser and chest of drawers stand against the opposite wall, their surfaces clean and unadorned.
The scent of leather and soap is stronger here, mingling with something distinctly masculine and inherently Silas. It stirs a forgotten part of me, an ache buried deep beneath layers of solitude. My hands tighten around the edges of my flannel as heat creeps up my neck, shame trailing closely behind.
The sound of the water shutting off pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find him watching me. His movements are slow, labored as he presses a hand against the wound, his face hardening against the pain.
“Lie down on the bed,” I instruct, nodding toward the towel I’ve laid out. “I brought everything to fix that.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “Helena, go back to bed.”
I step closer, refusing to let his growl of authority sway me. “We’ve been through this. I won’t. Now, go to your bed.”
He exhales a long, jagged breath and closes his eyes, as if summoning patience from some untapped reserve. “No woman has touched me since Caroline.”
The confession is quiet, but it hits like a strike of thunder, the significance of her name lingering in the space between us.
“I’m not touching you,” I say softly, though the tension between us is anything but gentle. “I’m tending to your wound.”
His eyes snap open, the deep, raging blue of them pinning me in place. “You’re in your nightgown.”
“With a flannel over it,” I counter, pulling the fabric tighter around me as though it could shield me from his scrutiny.
His voice drops. “Ms. Toth?—”
“Silas,” I cut him off, my tone firm but not unkind. “You’re in pain. That wound needs to be cleaned, and you need to lie down.”
The room is like a vacuum, the unspoken tension weaving itself tighter around us. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, his eyes searching mine, as though trying to gauge whether I can handle the weight of what lies between us.
Finally, with a low growl of resignation, he steps toward the bed. “You’re too damn stubborn, you know that?”
“I’ve been told,” I reply, forcing steadiness into my voice as I follow him. But as he sinks onto the bed, the vulnerability in his movements stirs something deep within me. The need to care for him is too strong.
The silence between us sinks in as I wet a towel in the bowl, the cool water rippling as I wring it out. My hand pauses midair, hovering just above the torn skin on his side. My pulse beats in my ears, and I glance at him. His head turns on the pillow, his eyes locking onto mine. They’re a raging storm, conflicted and dark.
I don’t falter. Slowly, I lower the towel and begin patting the skin around the wound, wiping away the dried blood crusted against his tanned flesh. The water stains crimson as I dip the cloth again, wringing it out.
When I press it to the wound itself, his body jerks, and he hisses in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his head snapping away from me.
“Tell me what happened,” I ask.
“Got too close to one this time,” he grits out.
My hand stills against his side. “Silas,” I begin, my voice edgedwith steel. “This isn’t from an animal or a knife. Was there a gun involved?”
His silence is louder than any denial he could have spoken.
I allow him his silence, and finish cleaning the wound, the raw edge of the skin stark against his otherwise unmarred torso. Reaching for the antiseptic, I dampen a fresh towel. The acrid scent of alcohol stings my nose as I turn back to him, folding another towel thickly and placing it in his hand.
“Bite down on this,” I instruct.
Without hesitation, he lifts the towel to his mouth, his jaw clenching around it as though this is far from his first time enduring pain in silence. His eyes flicker to mine, a flash of vulnerability quickly masked by resolve.
I press the antiseptic-soaked cloth to his wound, and his entire body tenses. His eyes slam shut, his breathing ragged as he forces air through his nose in short bursts.
