Page 21 of Taken Off Camera
He props pillows against the headboard, arranging them to support my back and neck. My chest tightens at the careful attention. No one has ever cared for me like this. Not even Saint.
His breath tickles my ear. “Better?”
I turn my face into his neck, drawn by his pheromones. “Yes.”
His breath catches before he straightens, his hands falling away. A moment later, I hear the clink of a spoon on ceramic, then his weight settles beside me again.
“Open.” The command is soft but firm.
My pride rears up. “I can feed myself.”
He pauses before saying, “Of course.”
The weight of a bowl settles in my lap, warm through the blanket. His fingers wrap around mine, guiding them to the edge of the bowl, then to thespoon resting inside. The touch lingers, his skin warm against my knuckles.
I lift the spoon, liquid sloshing. My hand shakes, weakened from fever and dehydration. Before I can spill, his fingers return, steadying mine.
“Let me help,” he says again without judgment.
This time, I surrender, letting him guide the spoon to my mouth. The broth is a perfect blend of salty, herbal with the sharpness of ginger, and warm. I swallow and find myself opening for the next spoonful without prompting.
“Good?” he asks.
“Better than the instant ramen I usually eat when I’m sick.” The confession slips out unplanned.
“You should take better care of yourself,” he chastises with concern rather than criticism.
“I’d like to argue, but I can’t.” I open my mouth for another bite and swallow. “Saint told me to cancel, but I was being stubborn.”
“Is money really that tight for you?” he asks.
I hesitate, unsure how much I want to reveal. “Not always, but I have some unexpected expenses coming up, and…”
“And?” he prompts.
“I felt like crap, and I wanted to go to sleeplistening to you talk.” It’s easier to admit now, behind the anonymity of the blindfold.
The spoon nudges past my lips. “You don’t have to perform right now. There’s no need to flatter me.”
Affronted, I jerk my chin back, and soup splatters down my chin.
A sigh escapes him, and his thumb brushes along my jaw, wiping away the mess before it can drip further. Despite my annoyance, the touch sends a shiver of awareness through me.
“That wasn’t flattery,” I rasp, catching his wrist before he can pull away. “If it were, I’d have said something clever, like…like… I don’t know. I’m too sick to think of anything.”
His hand stills in mine, his pulse steady beneath my fingers.
“I meant it,” I whisper, the blindfold allowing me to be honest. “When you talk to me, I feel safe. Like I can let go for a minute.”
A charged silence follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. When he speaks, it comes out in a contented Alpha rumble. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
I tilt my head toward the sound of him, soup forgotten. “Then I’m glad I’m the first.”
We continue in silence, broken only by the clink of the spoon in the bowl and my swallowing. Each time his fingers brush mine, each time the spoon touches my lips, the intimate domesticity of the moment strikes me anew.
Without sight, every sound amplifies. The soft whisk of fabric as he shifts position. The gentle click of the spoon returning to the bowl. His breathing, controlled but quickening whenever our skin brushes.
“How long was I out, exactly?” I ask between spoonsful.
