Page 96 of On Edge

She doesn’t look at me. “Tell you what?”

“That the shoes were hurting you.” I kneel beside her on the bed, carefully removing first one heel, then the other. Thedamage is worse than I thought. The blisters have broken open and then bled continuously. It’s a wonder she wasn’t limping. “You walked around all night like this.”

She gives a forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t want to... make a fuss after what happened.” Then she yawns.

After what happened with Fogg, I had to return to the party to finish my conversation with Dante Black. I would have sent Sage to our room, because she was in no fit state to go anywhere, but I also didn’t want to let her out of my sight again. She came with me, but didn’t talk much, just kept smiling politely and sipping champagne until we could leave.

And now I feel like a right bastard.

I exhale slowly through my nose. She didn’t make a fuss. I dragged her through that party like I owned her while she bled into those expensive shoes I made her wear. And for what, so I could show her off like a trophy.

I go to the bathroom and grab the first-aid kit from under the sink. When I return, she hasn’t moved.

Now I’m worried. But I say nothing and pour her three fingers of whiskey.

“Here. Drink this.”

She slowly sits up, eyes me, and takes the glass. “Do you always bark orders at people? We’re not dogs, you know.”

I give her a look, a soft one because the rage that took over before is all but gone. “No, you’re not. Dogs are loyal.”

“And they love unconditionally,” is all she says before she takes a swallow and then makes a face.

I sit on the edge of the bed. What the fuck does she mean by that? “Pass me your foot.”

She doesn’t move. “I’m ticklish.”

With a sigh, I grab her ankle, but she lets out a giggle and tries to kick me. Christ, how much has she had to drink?

“You didn’t complain when I put your shoes on earlier.”

“Fine.” But she smirks and shyly offers me her foot.

I lift it gently, cleaning away the blood with antiseptic wipes. She doesn’t bat an eyelid when it must sting, but leans back on the pillows, watching me with those doe eyes of hers. I work methodically, cleaning the wound, drying it with antiseptic spray, and applying a Band-Aid. First one foot, then the other.

That’s when I hear it, a soft, rhythmic sound.

Christ. She’s snoring.

I pause, Band-Aid half-applied to her heel. Her face is peaceful, lips slightly parted, all the fear from earlier completely gone. Good. She needs to sleep. Hopefully, she feels safe here.Who am I kidding? She doesn’t feel safe. She’s petrified of me.

In her hand, the whiskey glass is tilted like it might spill everywhere. Sighing, I reach for it and place it on a solid surface. At least she drank half of it, although maybe now she’s had too much.

I don’t do this. I don’t look after people, especially women. How do I know if she’s had too much? What if I’ve unsuspectingly given her alcohol poisoning?

My pulse speeds up as I search on my phone for what alcohol poisoning looks like, and I count her breaths to make sure.

No, she’s fine. Thank fuck.

When I finish tending to her cuts and blisters, I carefully ease the duvet out from under her. She needs to be properly in bed, not just collapsed on top of the covers. I slide one arm beneath her shoulders, trying to shift her weight?—

Her head rolls onto my forearm.

I freeze.

She’s heavy when I go to slide her off, but she murmurs and grabs onto me, clinging in tighter.

Okay then.