Page 6 of The Enforcer (Damn! #2)

LILY STOOD FROZEN.

Naked. Exposed. Every inch of her skin alive with awareness, of the cold air, of her trembling hands, of his eyes on her. She wasn’t shaking from fear alone. It was humiliation. Rage. Shock. And something hotter she didn’t want to name. Not with the way he was looking at her.

His gaze wasn’t soft. It was hard and assessing, but there was a shift. The low, dark heat simmering behind his narrowed eyes said he’d noticed her. Not just as a threat. Not just as a liability.

As a woman.

“Fuck,” he growled, the word ragged and full of frustration, at her, at himself, at the whole damned situation.

He turned and stalked into the living area, his broad shoulders tight with tension. The space was massive, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering sweep of Dallas far below. He grabbed a heavy, woven wool blanket from the back of the couch and flung it toward her without looking back.

She moved for her clothes on instinct.

“The blanket,” he barked. “Not your clothes. Those get burned.”

Burned? Jesus. She snatched the blanket off the floor and wrapped it tightly around herself. It helped with the chill and gave her something to hide behind, but it was scratchy as hell. Still, a barrier. Regardless of how uncomfortable.

Zane cracked the door to his penthouse open and handed her clothing to someone standing there. “Incinerate these. Now.”

She took a slow breath. Calculated. He was bleeding, distracted, irritated, but he hadn’t killed her. That had to mean something.

“Were those men after you or me?” she asked, keeping her voice calm, neutral.

He didn’t answer right away. He dropped into the nearest chair with a wince, hand pressed to his side. Blood slicked his fingers.

He looked at her again, really looked. “Excellent question. One way or another I intend to find out.”

He pulled out his phone, already dialing. “Titus. Yeah. It was bad. They were waiting for us outside the penthouse, tight timing, clean setup. Four down on their side. I’m hit, but it’s a graze. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He paused, teeth grinding. “My men are here already. I want two more on-site within five minutes, and the rest sweeping the perimeter. If the police haven’t rolled up yet, find out why. Then find out who the fuck knew where we’d be and how they got that close.”

His tone stayed level, measured even, but every word vibrated with barely restrained violence, the kind of fury that didn’t explode outward, but wrapped tighter and tighter, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It was the kind of calm that preceded executions.

Not loud. Not chaotic. Just surgical. Absolute.

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto a nearby table with a sharp clatter that echoed through the stillness. The movement wasn’t casual, it was precise, final, like slamming a door on whatever version of Zane had existed before the shooting.

Lily watched him from across the room, muscles tight, breath shallow.

The blanket itched her skin, but she didn’t dare move.

Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and uneven, every muscle coiled like a spring beneath her skin.

Every nerve in her body remained keyed up, suspended between relief and fear, between awareness of her nudity and the blood still seeping from his side.

He wasn’t just dangerous. He was bleeding, wound open, eyes still burning, and somehow more lethal because of it. Like a predator injured, not weakened, but enraged. The kind that lashed out with more precision, more wrath. The kind that hunted slower, smarter, and never missed twice.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

Zane’s expression didn’t shift. “No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“You clean me up.”

Lily stared at him, stunned. The words landed with a kind of absurd weight, dread prickling up her spine.

Of course he wasn’t joking. He didn’t seem like the type to ever joke.

But still. For a beat, she couldn’t move, her mind catching up to the fact that this man, wounded, bloodied, lethal, was calmly ordering her to play medic in his penthouse bathroom.

She wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Before she could argue, he was already on his feet again, snagging her arm and pulling her along with him down a wide, dark hallway. Everything about the place screamed expensive, from the sleek lighting to the way the floor softened underfoot.

He pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a monstrous bedroom suite. All sharp lines and masculine luxury. He didn’t stop. Just kept walking.

They entered a bathroom that looked like it belonged in a luxury spa. Stone. Glass. Polished chrome. And a cabinet clearly designed for damage control.

Zane opened it with one hand, revealing gauze, antiseptic, thread, surgical tape, gloves, even a small cauterizer.

She glanced at him, one brow raised. “You get shot that often?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he dropped the bloodied shirt onto the counter and sat on the edge, motioning toward her with a jerk of his chin. “Let’s go. With your blanket or naked, I don’t care.”

She stepped forward, blanket clutched tight, but it was too big to manage one-handed. As she reached for the supplies, it slipped.

Zane saw more than he should have. More than she intended him to. And yet, he didn’t look away. His gaze lingered, long enough to make her skin prickle, long enough for her to know exactly what was running through his head, even if he’d never say it out loud.

She caught the blanket quickly, yanking it back into place and wrapped it more securely, but his eyes had already darkened. That simmering edge of heat was back, sharp and unwanted, and entirely incontrovertible.

She said nothing.

Neither did he.

But when she turned to wet the gauze and tear open a sterile packet, she could feel him watching her, like a current rolling up her spine. When she turned back, he was still sitting on the edge of the counter, shirtless, his abs streaked with blood, his eyes steady and unreadable.

God, he was built, broad chest, honed muscle, the kind of potency that didn’t just come from gym time but from a life of danger.

It made her stomach twist, not just with reluctant attraction, but with the shame of noticing it at all.

She didn’t want to admire him. Not here.

Not now. And she hated that she noticed.

Hated more how her pulse kicked up when she caught the faint gleam of sweat at his collarbone.

She stood in front of him, biting her tongue as she started to clean the wound.

His knees parted, and she found herself boxed in between his thighs, close, too close, the heat of his body rolling off him in steady waves.

Her bare feet barely shifted on the cool tile, the edge of the blanket brushing his skin as she leaned in.

It was a terrible position. Vulnerable. Intimate.

She had to press against his thighs to reach the cut, her chest nearly brushing his as she worked.

The air between them charged, crackling.

And all the while the rough blanket surrounding her threatened to hit the floor.

With her hands covered in his blood, she couldn’t even tighten it.

She forced herself to get the job done as quickly as possible.

He didn’t flinch. Just sat there, letting her work. Until he reached for the needle and surgical thread.

“No,” she said instantly. “You need stitches, but I’m not doing that.”

His brows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not a trauma nurse, and I don’t like sewing people up while pressed between their thighs, half-naked, and trying not to pass out from adrenaline overload.”

A flicker of amusement drifted through his gaze. “Delicate sensibilities?”

She pressed the gauze harder than necessary. He hissed.

“Keep pushing and I’ll shove that needle somewhere else,” she muttered.

Zane caught her wrist, not painfully, but firmly, and pulled her closer.

The blanket slipped again, her breath catching as he dipped his head, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, his mouth hovering near her collarbone without quite making contact.

His breath traced along her skin, dragging a slow, electric burn in its wake.

Every nerve in her body tightened like wire pulled too taut, awareness spiking so sharply it made her dizzy.

“Still not the worst way I’ve been treated during a patch job,” he murmured.

Lily’s stomach twisted, equal parts disbelief and something else she didn’t want to name. She should hate him for this. Maybe she did. But her body hadn’t gotten the message yet, and that only made it worse.

Her pulse thundered. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not the pain,” he said, voice low. “The proximity.”

She wanted to shove him away. Wanted to walk out and slam every door behind her. But her hands stayed where they were, pressed to his skin, trembling now for a very different reason.

She drew in a shaky breath, then pushed against his chest, not hard, not enough to make him move, but enough to try and put space between them. “You’re bleeding,” she said, voice low, uneven.

“Then fix it,” he replied.

So she did.

With trembling fingers, she reached for the butterfly tape instead of the needle and began sealing the wound.

Zane let her work, but his hands didn’t stay idle.

One slid down to her waist, anchoring her, the other brushing the edge of the blanket where it slipped along her back.

She froze when his thumb traced bare skin.

“You’re not making this easier,” she said tightly.

“Wasn’t trying to,” he murmured.

She looked up, caught the heat simmering behind his cool exterior, and something else. A flicker of curiosity. Of restraint. Of a man holding a line he wasn’t used to drawing.

The wound was mostly closed now. Her work wasn’t perfect, but it would hold.