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The moment stretched between them, raw, bleeding, unfinished.
Finally, Nash pushed the door open and stepped out, his movements slower than they had been this morning, heavier now with pain and exhaustion he didn’t bother hiding anymore.
She keyed open her suite, stepping into the dim warmth. It smelled like jasmine, but it soon was filled with him and something burnt lingering at the edges.
Nash dropped his keys on the counter with a clatter and toed off his boots without ceremony.
Grace shut the door behind them. For a moment, they just stood there, adrift in the small, imperfect silence. Then she crossed the room and touched his wrist.
Her hands shook only a little as she dumped out the bag, the two items spreading onto the coverlet, aloe vera, and wild yam. The moment she touched the edge of his jacket to peel it back, Nash flinched, and something in her chest fractured. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions in check.
Carefully, she stripped the leather away from him, her fingers brushing over muscles that trembled.
Her hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt hem, and he stiffened.
When his hand caught her wrist, gentle but firm, he said, “Grace.”
Her name was a warning. A prayer. Her heart thundered against her ribs.
“I need to make sure we get all the injuries cleaned. It’ll make it easier,” she said, voice soft but sure. “Please. Let me do this for you,hebbiti.”
His gaze sharpened, lips parting slightly.
“I understand Arabic,” she said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between surprise and significance. Then her voice dropped again, quieter this time. Barely a breath. “In the elevator… it grounded me.” Her fingers pressed softly against his ribs, just over where he’d landed on the floor. “Youground me.” He didn’t speak. Just watched her, the tension in his body slowly giving way to stillness. “Stop fighting me on this,” she whispered. “You stubborn, sweet man. Don’t you understand?” She leaned in closer, forehead almost to his, her touch steady now, but her breath trembling. “I need to do this. To touch you. To soothe you. I need it as much as you do.”
“Help me,” he whispered, and her heart melted into aching mush.
A man like Nash…he didn’t often ask a soul for assistance. “I’ll do it,” she said, unable to stop her hand from going over that dark hair as she slipped her arms around him, grabbed the hem from the small of his back, brushing over the butt of his weapon.
She stilled, and with a groan, he reached back and then pushed it onto the nightstand. She bunched the cotton in her fists and slid his shirt up his hard, ripped torso. He bent slightly toward her as she removed his shirt in one quick pull without him having to move that much.
“I’ll be right back.” She went to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit under the sink, a small basin next to it, and a washcloth. She filled the basin with cold water, carrying everything back out. “I got some over-the-counter pain killer…unless you want something stronger. I noticed you had some in your bag.”
“You like being prepared, organized,” he said softly.
“Yes. I don’t like guesswork or being without something essential I need,” she said.
“No, OTC is fine. I don’t want to be groggy, or too slow.”
Grace caught herself staring at him, the slope of his throat, the shadowed cut of his jaw, the faint flutter of his pulse against the hollow of his neck. He was beautiful. Not polished. But brutal and real and more alive than anyone she had ever met.
“You think we might not be safe here?”
“No, I think we are. Whoever attacked us did so through drones. Face-to-face is too intimidating for most computer jockeys,” he said. “But I’m not taking any chances with you, Grace. OTC.”
She met his eyes, stared at him, her heart fluttering with the memory of the way he’d come to her rescue, the focus, the strength, the problem-solving on the fly. “I don’t think I need any more research on Navy SEALs,” she whispered.
“That’s disappointing,” he said. “No more questions?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I’ve seen you in action…using your jacket like a net, and then a slingshot to stop the drones.” The heat coming off his body was tangible. His skin flushed beneath her touch, a sharp contrast to the chill still clinging to her fingertips. “Just the right amount of force, while keeping me safe.”
Nash said nothing. Didn’t look at her.
She’d seen him hurt before. In the way he moved his shoulder carefully after a run. In the silence that fell too fast when the lights flickered. But this, this was blood and burn. Real and raw and tangible in the low-lit quiet between them.