Chapter 33

I looked up at Kane, my voice soft and tremulous: “Kane?” My eyes shimmered, my cheeks pale from the bleeding, and my lips quivered. He swallowed hard, his voice rough with feeling.

“Mm?”

“Did… did you come just for me?”

His answer was simple: “Yes, because you’re hurt.”

I felt a pang of disappointment—so clinical, so devoid of emotion. I stepped out of his arms, wincing at my own vulnerability. I could still feel the faint scent of his herbal salve on me. “Let’s go… I’m starving. And my hand hurts. I want to sleep.”

He offered to blow on it to ease the pain, his awkward concern bringing a half-smile to my lips. “How would you even blow on it?”

He hesitated, and I teased him: “Or you could take me out for something delicious.”

He brightened. “Sure.”

Immediately, I regretted pushing it. What did I expect? I glanced first at my wounded hand, then at Kane’s wheelchair, his injured leg. “Maybe… pasta at home?”

“Okay.” His voice held warmth. “Want Neville to come cook for us?”

I shook my head. “Too late now. We’ll do it ourselves.”

It was messy with one functioning hand, but Zack helped—three bowls of creamy sauce on noodles.

“Mmm—still not as good as mine,” I teased Kane.

He smiled gently, and every bite he took seemed sweeter than the last. He even passed me noodles from his chopsticks, and as I tasted them, my bound fingers brushed him. Sparks flared. “Kane… you’re amazing.”

His ears twitched, he averted his eyes—and yet he paused before taking his own bite. His eyes held mine, heated with something more intense than simple gratitude.

I urged him softly: “Eat.”

He did—and something in the way he savored it told me more than words ever could.

Outside, Zack quietly finished his own noodles, stepping away so as not to intrude. It was a simple, beautiful moment—one that stole my breath.

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Later, I managed to bathe and slipped into delicate pajamas, emasculating a camisole that needed tying. But I couldn’t do it myself, so I found Kane.

“Kane… tie this for me?” I asked softly.

He inhaled sharply as I bent into frame, the straps slipping low. His hands trembled as he knotted them behind me. I sensed his heartbeat rattling in his ears—and cheeks streaming heat.

Satisfied, I nestled under the covers. “I’ll be okay,” I murmured. “Go rest.”

He sat back in his wheelchair, fingers flying over his laptop until sleep claimed him.

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In the pre-dawn hush, I quietly stirred and noticed Kane asleep frailty softened in the dimness. I crept beneath the covers to share warmth… and stumbled, tumbling onto his lap. Our lips brushed in an accident that felt strangely intimate. He woke, startled, but didn’t push away.

I panicked: “I—I’m so sorry—” I froze, hand hurting when I tried to sit up.

The camisole had slipped, exposing me. I scrambled for dignity, covering his face with a blanket, darting out.

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Later, in my borrowed suite, I stood before the mirror, cheeks aflame, heart pounding.

“He’s seen you before—is it such a big deal?” I whispered, staring at my own reflection, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.

But calmness would have to wait. Danger had passed, but my heart stirred with emotions I wasn’t ready to face.