Page 30 of Crown Of Blood

Instead, I watch her enter the bathroom as if gravity itself had decided she belongs here.

She stops in front of me, gaze locked on the wound. “What happened?”

“A disagreement.”

“That looks like more than a disagreement.”

Her hand hovers near my shoulder but doesn’t touch. The scent of her skin—soap, coffee, something faintly floral—fills the air between us. I swear I can feel her hesitation on my skin before she even moves.

“Sit,” she says softly.

I raise a brow. “You’re giving me orders now?”

“Someone has to.”

She takes the gauze from my hand before I can stop her. Her fingers brush mine—warm, steady.

For a second, I forget to breathe.

She presses the cloth against the wound. I tense, jaw tight.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t apologize for doing what I should’ve done an hour ago.”

She looks up then—right into my eyes—and it’s like standing too close to a flame you can’t walk away from.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I murmur.

“Do what?”

“Look at me likethat.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not a monster.”

Her breath catches. “Maybe you’re not.”

My pulse kicks hard. Her words hang there, heavy and dangerous.

She finishes wrapping my shoulder, fingers lingering a second too long before she pulls away.

When she straightens, I’m already watching her.

She’s close enough that the space between us could disappear if either of us breathed too deeply.

Her lips part like she wants to speak, but the words die somewhere between us.

I reach up—slowly, carefully—and brush a strand of hair from her face.

Her breath stutters.

The world shrinks to the sound of our hearts, the heat of the air, the inch of space we haven’t yet crossed.

I shouldn’t want this.

I shouldn’t want her.