Page 52 of Scorch

I look down. I think I did it yesterday at the warehouse, but I don't want him to feel bad.

Why? Why the hell do I care whether he feels bad or not? It was his fault that I was at the warehouse.

I shrug. “It’s fine. I don't know how I cut it.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks in a gentle voice that makes a lump rise in my throat.

I swallow it hard. God, I'm fucked up.

“No, it's fine,” I lie. Because when he brushes the top of his finger against it, I wilt.

“Liar,” he says, his tone rough. “Sit on the bed.”

He stalks off barefoot to the bathroom and comes back with a Band-Aid and some type of cleansing wipe.

“Viktor, I'm fine,” I say. Jesus, what would he do if I actually hurt myself? This is practically a paper cut.

Quietly, he bends on one knee, reaches for my hand and frowns, his eyebrows flashing together as he cleans little cuts on my skin before he opens the Band-Aid carefully and slides it on my hand. When he's done, he crumples the papers and lifts my hand to his lips.

But he doesn’t stop there.

He kisses the top of my wrist. My forearm. He keeps going until he’s gone the length of my arm, the warm, erotic touch of his mouth making my belly squirm deliciously.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says reverently before he says the last thing I expect him to.

“Marry me?”

I can't help it. My heart turns in my chest. I'm only human, after all. And there's something about this powerful, dangerous man who only goes soft for me that's making me swoon a little.

Timur wouldn't have put a Band-Aid on my wound.

Goddamn, I can't think of that asshole now.

“I suppose you’ll do,” I say in what I attempt to be a haughty tone, but instead, it comes out all breathy. I need to change the subject. “What are these developments?”

“I’ll tell you after coffee.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those guys who’s a bear until he’s had his coffee.”

He growls as if he’s incapable of speech until that caffeine hits his veins.

I love this kitchen. I won't tell him because I don't want to give him the satisfaction. It's all stainless steel appliances, high-end stuff like a chef might have, immaculate, clean, and filled with bright light, possibly the brightest room in his whole house. He walks over to the counter, which he has set up with a little coffee station. I squeal. This is perfect, like something you'd find on a Pinterest board.

“This thing makes caramel vanilla lattes? Are you kidding?”

He shrugs. “I’m well stocked.”

He knows my favorite things. Is he trying to seduce me?

How much does he really know about me?

He grunts, takes out the cup, and slides it under the Keurig. “I got that for you.” He doesn't look at my eyes.

I take it from him gratefully.

“What do you drink?”

“Espresso.”

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