Page 81 of Auctioned Innocence
“You first,” I counter, eyeing the blood-soaked silk pressed against his side. “That needs proper cleaning.”
“Sofia—” He starts, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of his body.
“Don’t argue with me.” My voice cracks on the last word, all my fear and frustration finally spilling over. “Please. I need…I need to do something useful.”
Understanding softens his expression.
He’s seen this before, I realize—the need to help, to fix, to do something concrete when everything else feels out of control.
He sits on the bed’s edge, carefully shrugging off what’s left of his ruined jacket.
The shirt beneath is stiff with dried blood, both his and probably some from the guards we fought.
My hands only shake a little as I help him unbutton it, revealing each inch of exposed skin.
The bullet graze along his ribs is angry and inflamed, but it’s the other injuries that make me suck in a sharp breath.
New bruises bloom across his chest and back—purple and black marks from being slammed into walls, from diving behind cover, from taking hits meant for me.
Old scars tell stories I’ve never heard—a puckered mark near his shoulder that looks like a knife wound, a long, thin line across his abdomen that speaks of surgery or violence or both.
When the shirt falls away completely, I have to bite my lip to stay focused on the medical necessities and not on the way the motel’s dim lighting plays across the planes of his chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle.
“Not as bad as it looks,” he says softly, noticing my reaction.
“Liar.” But I’m grateful for his attempt at comfort as I wet a washcloth in the tiny bathroom sink.
The water runs rusty for a moment before clearing, and I make a mental note to stick to bottled water for drinking.
I clean the wound as gently as possible, but his muscles still tense under my fingers with each pass of the cloth. I tell myself it’s from pain, not from my touch.
Not from the way my breath hitches every time he shifts, every time his skin warms under my fingertips.
“You did good tonight,” he says quietly. “Better than good. You were magnificent.”
I pause my cleaning, looking up to meet his eyes. “I was terrified.”
“Brave people usually are. It’s what you do with the fear that matters.” His hand covers mine briefly. “Your brother would be proud.”
The mention of Marco makes my chest tight. “Will we ever see them again? Marco, my parents?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. “This isn’t permanent, Sofia. We’re not running away—we’re going dark long enough to plan our counterattack.”
I finish bandaging him with supplies from the first aid kit, the medical tape stark white against his olive skin.
My movements are careful, but I’m acutely aware of every place our skin touches, every breath that lifts his chest.
“Your turn,” he says when I finish.
Before I can protest, his hands are gently examining the cut on my temple, the bruises on my arms from being grabbed and dragged.
“I’m fine,” I try to say, but the words stick in my throat as his fingers trail down my neck, checking for injury with the thoroughness of someone who’s seen too many hidden wounds.
“You’re in shock,” he corrects, his touch clinical but somehow intimate. “And you have glass in your hair.”
His fingers work carefully through the strands, removing tiny shards from the explosion at the auction house.
Each gentle tug sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
