Page 65 of The Silver Fox Vampire

There was silence. After a moment, he said gruffly, “I was worried about your safety.”

There was a sheepish cast to his features, like a little kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Truth is, my concerns, got the better of me.” He sighed.

“Concerns?”

“About you, woman,” he snapped, then his shoulders slumped. “I would never forgive myself if you got harmed. So I came to check on you.”

Maybe the alcohol and the injuries were loosening his tongue, making him more emotional, but gods she lovedthisOliver, so growly and imperfect andhonest.

She made soothing little sounds as she moved around him, gently dabbing at the cut above his eye. Rinsing, repeating. “Thank you for being concerned about me, sir,” she said softly.

“Oliver,” he muttered.

“Oliver.”

The silence hung heavy between them, their physical closeness, the mingling of their breath suddenly too intense.

She changed tack. “Something big and heavy was indenting your spine, but I couldn’t see it properly.”

He hesitated. “It was a feral of some sort, with foul breath. Not that mine is much better.”

“I don’t mind the smell of whiskey,” she said, leaning into him as she worked.

“There, done. Nothing looks like it needs stitches.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

She took a tube of antiseptic and smoothed it on with soft fingers. She felt sure he was almost holding his breath.

And oh gods, she loved touching him, her fingers stroking the planes and hollows of his face, so handsome despite the fact one eye was a purple slit already.

She cleaned the cloth, put it back in the water.

Goddess, she was kneeling between his thighs, her body almost pressed against his groin. Wearing her freaking nightdress, a flimsy one at that. She felt her nipples harden. It would be impossible for him to miss if he looked down.

Fuck it, let him look. Let him see what was going on. The pulse between her legs throbbed with need.

She glanced into his face, and even in his broken state, the tightness in his jaw told her he was not oblivious to the chemistry between them.

Abruptly he said, “Thanks for cleaning me up. I’ll be on my way.” With that, he jumped to standing and then had to steady himself with a hand on the chair.

“No Oliver, you’re not going anywhere,” she countered firmly. “You will stay in my bed—and I will sleep on the sofa.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” He took a wobbly step, then slumped back down onto the chair with a huff. “Urgh. I feel like shit.”

“Now do you agree with me? Let’s try again. But this time, take my arm. I’ll help you to the bedroom.”

He didn’t resist. When they got to her room, he sat on her bed with a heavy sigh.

“Get those clothes off, take a warm shower across the hall and I’ll bring you a towel,” she said briskly.

“I’ll likely bleed all over it.”

“Immaterial.” She moved over to the door, turning briefly to see him already undoing the buttons of his bloodied shirt. Her belly kindly contracted with lust.

And then he smiled at her, that rakish twist of his mouth. “Thank you, Clare,” he said softly, and all she could do was mumble something about towels as she pivoted and left the room.

When she got back, he was already in the bathroom across the hall. Thank the gods, because seeing his half naked body earlier had unraveled her. She left the towel on the bed, then went back to the kitchen and brewed an herbal tea. Five minutes later she knocked on the door. When he told her “Come in,” she entered and found him with the towel wrapped around his waist, his silver hair damp and tousled.