Page 48 of Brass
Something in my tone must convey the futility of argument, because she sighs and carefully lifts the hem of her shirt, exposing her ribcage on the left side.
The bruising has progressed through its expected evolution—the angry purple now fading to greenish-yellow at the edges. I kneel beside the bed, hands gently probing the area, feeling for irregularities, and assessing the extent of the damage.
“Deep breath in,” I instruct, monitoring the expansion of her lungs, the movement of her ribs beneath my fingertips. “And out. Again.”
Her breathing hitches slightly as I find a particularly tender spot. “Sorry,” I murmur, easing the pressure.
“It’s fine.” Her voice is tight, controlled.
But it’s not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. Especially not the way my body responds to her proximity, the feel of her skin beneath my hands, or her subtle scent that fills my senses despite the clinical nature of my examination.
“Two, possibly three bruised ribs,” I diagnose, focusing on the medical assessment rather than the inappropriate reactionsit’s triggering. “No displacement. No sign of internal bleeding. But they need proper binding for support.”
I reach for the elastic bandage in the kit, unrolling a length. “Arms up, please.”
She complies, lifting her arms with a wince. I work efficiently, wrapping the bandage around her torso with firm, even pressure. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to notice the quickening of her pulse at her throat. Close enough that it takes every ounce of my control to maintain professional detachment.
“Better?” I ask when I’ve secured the bandage.
She takes an experimental breath, deeper than before. “Yes. Thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—acknowledgment of the tension building since Cleveland. Since the subway. Since I first saw her on that platform and made the choice that led us here.
I should move away. Should maintain the distance that’s kept us both safe from complications. Instead, I’m frozen in place, kneeling before her, close enough to touch. Close enough to give in to the impulses I’ve been fighting for days.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—a nervous gesture that sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
“Ryan…” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The sound of my name on her lips breaks something loose inside me. My hand moves of its own accord, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, soft in a way that makes the calluses on my fingertips feel suddenly rough, inadequate.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t break the contact. Instead, she leans into it, almost imperceptibly, her eyes darkening.
One of us needs to be rational. One of us needs to remember professional boundaries and tactical priorities. I withdraw my hand, stand, and put the necessary distance between us.
“Get some rest,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “We have a long drive tomorrow.”
Disappointment flashes across her features before she masks it with a nod. “Right. Of course.”
I retreat to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me. Lean against it, eyes closed, breathing carefully controlled.
Seattle suddenly feels impossibly far, and I’m not certain I can maintain control for that long.
SEVENTEEN
Celeste
The door closesbehind Ryan with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence. I remain perched on the edge of the bed, my ribcage still warm from the careful press of his hands. The binding feels secure, professional, clinical, even. But there was nothing clinical about the way his fingers traced along my skin, or how his breath caught when I winced.
I touch the bandage, feeling the firm pressure that somehow simultaneously makes breathing both easier and more difficult. The physical pain has subsided, replaced by an ache that has nothing to do with broken ribs and everything to do with the man currently hiding in the bathroom.
Hiding. That’s exactly what he’s doing.
Five days of this dance—of heated glances and aborted touches, of moments that build toward something inevitable before he retreats behind that wall of professionalism. Five days of watching his iron control strain at the seams while he pretends nothing is happening between us.
I’m tired of it. Tired of his denial. Tired of pretending I don’t see the way his eyes darken when I challenge him, don’t noticehow his hands clench when I push his boundaries. Tired of ignoring the electricity that charges the air whenever we’re close.
My gaze drifts to his makeshift bed on the floor—the neatly arranged blankets, the perfectly positioned pillow. Even in discomfort, he maintains rigid order. Control above all else.
