Silence falls. We're both breathing hard, adrenaline surging. When Eamon helps me up, his hands linger on my arms longer than necessary.
"You're bleeding," I tell him, noting the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.
"Flesh wound."
"You need medical attention."
"No hospitals. Too many questions."
I understand. Gunshot wounds trigger police reports.
"My place isn't far," he says. "You can patch me up."
The suggestion hangs between us, loaded with implications we both recognize.
Eamon's apartment surprises me with its military precision. Everything organized, clean, functional. Not what I expected from the family enforcer.
"Medical supplies are in the bathroom," he says, already pulling off his bloody shirt.
My mouth goes dry. His chest is a roadmap of scars and hard muscle, Celtic tattoos wrapping around his ribs. Evidence of violence mixed with undeniable masculine beauty.
I retrieve the first aid kit, hands shaking slightly. Professional distance, Sorcha. You're treating a wound, not ogling his body.
"Sit," I order, trying to regain control.
He complies, watching as I examine the injury. The bullet carved a furrow through his bicep—painful but not life-threatening.
"Lucky," I murmur, cleaning the wound. "Half inch right and you'd have nerve damage."
"Where did you learn medical training?"
"Required for my last job." True, though I skip mentioning FBI combat medicine.
He doesn't flinch as I work, but his breathing changes when my fingers brush uninjured skin. The contact sends electricity up my arms.
"Military?" I ask, noting old scars.
"Marines. Two tours." His voice roughens. "What about your ex? The one who taught you to fight?"
"He was... thorough in his instruction."
Lies taste bitter, but I can't tell him the truth. That my "ex" was an FBI instructor who taught me seventeen ways to kill with improvised weapons.
I apply antibiotic ointment, hyperaware of his skin under my hands. Warm, scarred, undeniably male. My training never covered fighting attraction to the target.
"Any other injuries?" I ask.
"Just bruised ribs."
I check anyway, fingers skimming over his torso. His muscles tense under my touch, and when I look up, his eyes are burning with something that has nothing to do with pain.
"Sorcha." My name sounds different in his rough voice.
"You'll live," I whisper, securing the bandage.
But I don't pull away. Neither does he. We're too close, breathing the same air, tension crackling between us like live wire.
He reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek. "You saved my life today."
