Page 32 of Petals and Fangs

“Oh no! How do I explain this to her?” I gasp.

“It will look like you slept with your ex-boyfriend after all, will it not?”

“Oh, God,” I mutter under my breath, trying to hide the blush creeping on my cheeks.

“Here,” he offers me his hand. It is pale and strong, a stark contrast against my smaller one.

I take his hand and get up, and for a second, our gazes meet. His eyes are as blue as the dark ocean, a color I could never forget.

“How is your hand?” he asks.

“I barely feel any pain. Thank you, I suppose,” I mutter, and try to take off the bandage, but he is quick to stop me.

“Don't,” he snarls, his eyes fixed on me.

“What is it?”

“I just don't want you to see what's under there,” he says. I can tell his voice is heavy with guilt.

“It doesn't hurt much. Look," I say as I lightly press on the bandage, trying to prove my point.

“Stop it. You don't have to prove anything to me.”

“Then why are you making a big deal out of this?”

“It's just not a very pleasant sight in the morning. Plus, you should allow the wound to heal.”

“Are you going to give me one of your substances for free?” I tease.

“Well, if I could, then yes. I would. Except they are not meant for you.”

“Not for me? What does that mean?”

“It is but a slight wound, Lily. My substances are the very last thing you need.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“I had to.” His gaze is stern and cold. I can tell he is hiding something. There is a deep emotion, a dark emotion, brewing behind his icy blue eyes. It is the same look he gave me in the car.

“I'll have my driver drop you off at your apartment.”

“Thank you.”

“But before that, I would like to apologize and make you some breakfast.”

“Make me breakfast? You can cook?”

“I can't, but I am going to try. Consider it an apology for the way I talked to you in my office, and last night’s call,” he says, looking down at my wrist.

I can't believe what is happening. Is he really going to make me breakfast? Is he being nice to me? I wonder what the real reason behind his actions are.

“You really don’t have to do that, you know?”

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. It is the least I can do.”

There must be a reason he is being nice to me. I wonder what is going through his mind. It must be something deeper than mere kindness, a well-plotted scheme. Or perhaps I am just overthinking.

I place my hand on his shoulder. His skin is so soft, and yet it is so cold.

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