Page 70 of Kept in the Dark

“In an absolute sense, perhaps not. But you are smaller than me,” he says, almost dismissively, totally ignorant of how being called small for the literal first time in my life is completely rocking my world.

He crosses the room towards the kitchenette and grabs a waiting shaker bottle, draining the protein in one shot. When he’s done, he rinses the cup, speaking to me over his shoulder. “I am pleased you are awake and that you look well. I think perhaps my wound should be examined.”

My eyes drop down to its approximate area on his torso, and I see that there’s a strip of flesh still visible because his shirt didn’t fall back all the way into place. My mouth goes dry. “You’re probably right. If you want to take a shower and give it a gentle cleaning, I can come take a look when you’re done.”

“Good.” He points. “In there is a closet. Feel free to select something to wear.”

For some reason, that makes my cheeks heat. “Okay, thanks.”

Like it is about half the time, his only answer is a nod, and then he disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water come on and then turn off five minutes later, barely enough time for me to snoop. Everything is neat, minimal, and organized, and my stomach does a flip as I think about how similarly we occupy our personal spaces. I’ve never needed or wanted a lot of stuff, and clearly, Dimitri is the same. Everything he owns is intentional, purposeful.

I wait a little bit to give him time to dry off and dress, then I knock.

“Come in.”

When I enter the bathroom, our eyes meet in the mirror, and I can see that he’s carefully patting the line of stitches dry with some sterile gauze.

Then I balk. My timing was off. He’s still got a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Want me to come back?”

We both glance down at the terrycloth. It’s knotted, and probably not going anywhere, but for some reason, having just a towel between us feels different, even though this is the same amount of skin that’s been on display before. Pants are just so much more… solid.

He lifts a brow. “Does this make you uncomfortable, my med?”

“No, it’s fine,” I huff, peeved at the nickname, since the intentional use feels almost like he’s mocking me.

I’m amedicalprofessional. A nurse. I see naked bodies all the time.

He spins and leans against the counter while I grab tweezers and some gloves from the kit. I bend forward, wincing at the state of the inflamed skin.

“How does it look?”

“It was better before, obviously. How’s the pain?”

“Not bad. Sore.”

“It’ll probably be another week or two until you’re back to normal, but it doesn’t look infected, so that’s good. Sorry again about hitting it.”

“Do not be sorry—you were defending yourself, and it is always smart to go for your opponent’s weakest point. The only reason it has healed this well so far is because I have been in the care of a trained professional,” he acknowledges, dipping his chin.

I turn my head, focusing down instead of reacting to the praise. “I’m going to take some of the stitches out and replace them with butterfly strips. But you’re still… you’re a little wet,” I say, nodding at the water that clings to his smattering of chest hair. He reaches for another towel, and I hold out my hand for it. “I’ll get it.”

With a look that’s all liquid heat, he slowly hands me the towel.

Do I have to do this? Nope. But I’m a woman possessed—mesmerized by the sight of his scarred, scary, powerful body. He goes still as I start gently patting him dry, starting around his collarbones where water has pooled in deep divots. His chest rises and falls, expanding under my hand. I feel my breath sync with his as I draw the towel down across his pecs, over the peaks and valleys created by muscle and scar tissue alike.

“Nicole,” he says, and it’s such a deep rasp that it scrapes against my spine and draws a wave of goosebumps across my arms and chest. The tingling settles around my nipples, which suddenly, desperately itch for a touch.

I bite my lip, but the motion tugs at the tender skin of my chin. It’s an uncomfortable reminder, one that cuts through the sexual tension like dull scissors—slowly, incompletely.

Fuck.

This is not the time. He’s got a gaping wound, and I’m covered in bruises.

We need a distraction. Both of us.

I clear my throat and set down the towel. “So… you spoke with your team? I assume you were discussing what happened and making a plan. Anything you care to share?”