Page 31

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“It’s okay, you know,” he says, voice softer now. “If it does. You can admit it.”

He reaches out, winding a loose strand of hair around his finger. I jerk back, but he follows, stepping into my space as he tucks it gently behind my ear.

“I’ll admit it right now,” he murmurs, meeting my eyes. “Seeing Mick Davis’s hands on you made me want to murder him right there on the dance floor.”

He steps closer, and I instinctively move back.

“Well, you and I aren’t the same,” I mutter. “I felt nothing.”

“I know it’s hard to believe when you look like that, but you’re still human.” His voice is too calm, too assured. “It’s only natural to get jealous.”

My back hits the island. I reach up, gripping the edge of the countertop for support.

Rhett leans in, close enough that I can feel the words when he adds, “Even if you don’t understand it.”

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes .

“But you have to know that being jealous of her is a waste of your time. She doesn’t mean anything to me. Just like I don’t mean anything to her. Not really. It’s the same thing with all of them.”

“Them?” I ask, my voice brittle.

“Those women,” he says simply.

“A moment of adrenaline. A mutual exchange. A release. A shot of dopamine. A fleeting connection.” His voice softens, almost thoughtful. “I mean, you said it yourself before. You have desires. Needs.”

He closes the distance between us.

“Now, tell me, Baby Bear…”

His mouth grazes the shell of my ear, and I freeze.

“Are your needs being met?”

A sharp breath catches in my throat just as his fingers curl into my hair, gently but firmly tugging my head back.

“Mmm,” he hums, lips brushing along my neck. “You know I’d give you whatever you need. Anything you want. All you have to do is ask.”

A full-body shiver rolls through me, and before I can think—before I can feel—I move.

My arms flail out as I shove him away, stumbling back in a panic. “I don’t?—”

My heels swing wildly in my hand, and I register a crash a split second before pain shoots through my foot.

A burst of red-hot heat. A jolt. Blinding.

I cry out, nearly losing my balance. My heel lands hard, and I feel the sharp slice tear into my skin. I glance down just long enough to realize what happened—a wine glass I’d left on the counter earlier, now in jagged pieces on the floor.

And I stepped right into it.

I drop my shoes with a clatter, trying to catch myself as I topple backward .

“Cub? Oh my God?—”

Rhett’s voice barely registers before he’s scooping me up into his arms.

The world tilts as he carries me through the apartment, pushing into the bathroom and setting me down on the counter.

I curl forward, gripping the edge with one hand and clutching my foot with the other.

Pain pulses sharp and steady, and I dig my nails into my skin to distract myself from the sting.

“Let me see,” Rhett says, his tone urgent.

“No,” I grit out. “I’m fine.”

“You stepped on glass?—”

“Really?” I deadpan. “I had no idea.”

“Okay, well, let me help?—”

“Rhett, seriously. I’ve got it. Just… give me a minute.”

“Would you stop being ridiculous?” he snaps. “You might still have glass in your foot. And if I need to take you to the ER, I’d rather not wait until you’re bleeding out all over the tile?—”

“But—”

“Cub,” he cuts in, voice low and firm, “shut up and give me your foot.”

Before I can protest again, he grabs my ankle and pulls me toward him across the counter. I squirm, but the moment I ease the pressure of my nails from my skin, the pain returns full force, sharp and throbbing. It robs me of my fight.

Rhett lifts my foot and inspects the sole. A moment later, his hand shifts to my waist, steadying me as he turns on the faucet and runs the cut under cool water. I slump forward, resting my forehead against the mirror and focusing on breathing.

“Okay,” he says after a minute. “Good news and bad news.”

“Okay?” I mumble, barely above a whisper.

“The good news is, the cut looks worse than it is. You definitely don’t need stitches. But—there’s still a small piece of glass in there. Do you have tweezers? ”

“Makeup bag,” I mutter, pointing weakly to the white pouch on the counter.

Rhett keeps one hand around my foot as he pulls the bag over and rummages through it. When he finds the tweezers, he holds them up. “Alright. Deep breath for me.”

“Just do it,” I snap, eyes already squeezing shut.

“It’ll make it easier if?—”

“Rhett. Please.”

He lets out a soft grunt, then quickly plucks the shard from my skin. A sharp hiss tears from my throat at the sting, but before I can even fully recover, he’s pulling me back over the sink, rinsing the cut again.

It burns. I scream out a string of curses loud enough to wake half the building, but slowly—mercifully—the pain dulls. I blink down at the water swirling pink around the drain and realize Rhett was right—the cut’s not as deep as it felt.

“God,” I breathe. “How did something so small hurt that bad?”

“Pain has a good way of disguising itself,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now.

I glance up at him just as he turns away, digging through drawers now. I open my mouth to ask what he’s looking for—but another flare of pain hits, sudden and sharp. I flinch, bracing myself against the mirror.

I hear him pouring something—alcohol, probably—followed by more water. Then, a gentle patting as he dries the area.

I think he’s done. But then I see him pull out a small white tube and twist the cap.

“What now?” I ask, already exhausted.

“Antibiotic cream,” he says.

When he starts to apply it, I instinctively try to pull away, but he grips my ankle tighter.

“Hey. You’re fine,” he murmurs. “You need this.”

I stop fighting, chewing the inside of my cheek as he rubs the ointment in with surprising gentleness. Then he presses a piece of gauze over it and grabs medical tape.

“Last thing,” he says.

The tape wraps snugly around my heel, and he steps back, inspecting his work. Finally, he lets me go.

I slump against the mirror, eyes closed, exhaling in relief.

I hear drawers opening and closing again, things tossed into the bathroom trash. Then his hands are back—this time patting the tops of my knees.

“There you go,” Rhett says. “You okay?”

“I think so,” I breathe. “You know… you’re pretty good at that.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’ve only dealt with a few hundred cuts and bruises over the years.”

I let out a weak laugh. “Guess I should be thankful for that.”

With one last breath, I push away from the mirror and scoot to the edge of the counter to hop down.

But Rhett’s not ready for the movement.

As I shift forward, his hands slide instinctively up my thighs to steady me—and suddenly we’re face to face. Inches apart. Too close.

“Oh,” I stammer, pulling back slightly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says softly.

His eyes flick down between us, then back up to mine. He swallows hard, his brows knitting together in concentration.

I’m about to ask what he’s thinking—but I don’t need to.

Now that the adrenaline and pain have cleared, I feel it.

The electricity humming between us.

Me, perched on the counter. Rhett, standing between my legs.

His hands on my thighs.

My breaths shallow .

Him, taking care of me.

Me, letting him.

It’s dangerously familiar.

Rhett’s grip tightens, fingers flexing against my bare skin.

A gasp escapes me before I can stop it.

I bite the inside of my lip, trying to cover it up, but my throat goes dry.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I can see it in his eyes.

He’s looking at my lips. And he’s thinking about it.

His voice is rough when he finally breaks the silence.

“Cub… we need to talk.”