Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,27

stand painfully still, my eyes shut, my heart throbbing, trying to decide if I’m imagining the touch. Everything but my sore heart is paused mid-furl, awaiting new life. I wait like an idiot—until I hear a little tap a few feet away. I open my eyes and find him seated on the stool.

He’s got his right hand around his left one, and he’s looking down. The look on his face reminds me of the one I used to see in the mirror at Helga’s office in those first months of 2012. When Mom or Dad or Rett would take me and I’d just sit on the couch, occasionally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her chair.

His jaw is slightly tight. He looks like he’s trying to hold onto something: anger, maybe, or sadness.

My own sadness rocks in my chest like an ocean wave, so deep it threatens to choke me.

Of course he didn’t touch your cheek. He doesn’t even know you.

I really want to turn and run straight home, but that’s not what I do. I find my feet stepping over to him, as if we’re linked by an invisible cord.

I can’t seem to find the nerve to look him in the face—not after how insane I’ve acted since I got here—so I only guess his eyes are still on his lap. As I stop mere inches from his bare, tattooed back, he reaches into a brown, tin-looking box on the counter and draws out a saline-filled syringe.

For the barest second, our eyes meet in the mirror.

I step over to the sink, where there’s a bottle of Dial soap. I wash my hands. My gaze flicks toward him as I rub my soapy hands together. It bumps into his. He’s watching me. Of course he is. You’re the only other human in the room, Gwen.

I dry my hands on a beige towel hanging from a rack that’s standing on the counter, oddly comforted by the knowledge that neither of us is going to talk until I take my place behind him again.

When I station myself there, he hands me the syringe. “Have you irrigated a wound before?” His words are low and clipped.

I nod. All signs of tears are gone now. I feel numb inside. I can’t find the energy to tell him the wounds I’ve irrigated were on bears.

With no other words, he shuts his eyes. The stool has no back, so I can see the muscles of his back shift as he relaxes just a little. My gaze catches on his ink, but I don’t let myself linger.

I reach for his hair, a nervous fullness in my throat. My body flushes as my fingers sift through his dark curls. All around the wound, his hair is damp, so I can see his scalp with ease. I can see the long scars, making an imperfect pink semi-circle just over his ear.

My stomach twists. “You had a craniotomy?”

His eyes open, and I can feel his back and shoulders stiffen. As if in answer, the wound—along the rightmost side—seeps.

His shrewd blue eyes are blank and maybe hard; I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I’m surprised when he says, “Nothing that a little glue can’t fix, Miss White.”

Despite the sternness of his face, his tone is unmistakably gentle.

I nod. And breathe. Should I tell him that I had one, too? Mine is on the back of my head, safely hidden underneath my hair. I swallow. Then I pull a little on each side of the wound, until it parts and I can gauge the depth.

Seeing that pink skin makes my stomach clench. “Does it hurt?” I whisper.

“No.”

I don’t believe him, but I rinse the wound with saline, and he doesn’t move at all. I’m standing so close to his back that I can feel the heat of him. I’m trying not to look down at his amazing body, so as I let the saline sink in, I let my palm hover over his hair and train my eyes on it.

“I think you can wash your hair, with a washcloth,” I say softly, “but not until the Dermabond sets.” Of course, he probably knows that. My cheeks warm. I call forth my long-benched acting skills and try to keep my voice casual and steady. “I could maybe wash on the area that’s not right by the cut.”

We look at each other—me trying to hide the way each sight of his show-stopping face makes my stomach twist; him seeming steady