Marco nodded, his eyes flickering briefly to me before he left, closing the door behind him. I noticed he didn't lock it—a pointed reminder that locks were a formality in this place, not a necessity.
Rafe set the first aid kit on the nightstand and turned his attention back to me. "Now, are you going to let me look at that ankle, or would you prefer to sit there in pain to prove a point?"
Put that way, my resistance seemed childish. With a sigh of defeat, I extended my left leg toward him, wincing as the movement sent another jolt of pain through my ankle.
He moved to the foot of the bed and gently took my foot in his hands. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined the injury, his fingers warm against my skin.
"It's swelling," he observed, carefully rotating my foot. "But I don't think it's broken. Probably just a bad sprain."
I hissed as he hit a particularly tender spot. "Medical degree I don't know about?"
His lips quirked in a half-smile. "No. But I've had my share of injuries. This looks like a sprain, not a break. Still, we should ice it and keep it elevated."
He placed the ice pack carefully around my ankle, the sudden cold making me flinch. Then, to my surprise, he began to massage my foot, his thumbs working in small, soothing circles around the uninjured areas.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.
"Helping with the circulation," he replied, his eyes never leaving mine as his fingers continued their gentle work. "It will reduce the swelling and help with the pain."
I should have pulled away. Should have told him to stop. Should have maintained the wall of hostility I'd built between us.
Instead, I found myself relaxing into his touch, the tension draining from my body as his skilled fingers worked their magic. It felt... good. Comforting in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time.
"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, hanging in the air between us.
His hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their gentle massage. "What do you mean?"
"Why me?" I repeated, suddenly needing to know. "Out of all the women in the world, why did you fixate on me? What do you want from me?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes dark and thoughtful as they held mine. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, intimate, as if sharing a confession.
"Because I never had to want before. I just took. But you—youmade me want. And that’s worse."
The words sent a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear. There was something raw and honest in his admission, something that resonated in a place I didn't want to acknowledge.
"You think wanting something that badly makes it real," I asked, the words barely above a whisper.
He smiled then, a smile that transformed his severe features into something almost beautiful. Almost human.
"Love is too small a word for what this is."
The honesty of it—the complete lack of pretense or manipulation—hit me harder than any lie could have. He wasn't pretending this was about love or romance or any of the things that might have made it easier to understand. This was about possession, obsession, a need so fundamental it transcended conventional emotions.
Anger flared in me—at him, at myself, at the situation we were trapped in. Without thinking, I raised my hand to slap him, to wipe that knowing smile off his face.
He caught my wrist mid-air, his grip firm but not painful. Our eyes locked, the tension between us suddenly electric, charged with something that wasn't quite hatred and wasn't quite desire but existed in the dangerous space between.
For a heartbeat, we stayed frozen like that—my wrist in his grasp, our eyes locked in silent battle. Then, with a deliberate slowness that gave me every opportunity to pull away, he tugged me toward him.
I should have resisted. Should have fought. Should have done anything except what I did, which was to let him pull me closeruntil our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his eyes never leaving mine. "Tell me you don't feel this too."
I opened my mouth to do exactly that—to deny the current running between us, to reject the connection he was so certain existed. But the words wouldn't come.
And then his lips were on mine, and thought became impossible.
The kiss wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. Wasn't anything like the kisses I'd experienced before. It was possession, pure and simple—his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that should have frightened me but instead ignited something wild and reckless in my blood.
