Page 65 of Emperor of Wrath

“Bullshit. Annika?—”

“What are you going to do?” I spit angrily, grabbing the bottle as soon as he sets it down and taking a heavy swig. “Torture me until I give you a name?”

“No. But I believe there was mention of punishing you.”

My face explodes with heat, and I can feel my lip shrinking back between my teeth as I look away.

“Let me see that wound.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter quietly.

“The hell you are.” He starts to reach for the hem of the wedding dress. Before his hand gets there, I slap it away in a clumsy, vodka-slowed motion.

“Leave me alone.”

Kenzo rolls his eyes. “Are you always this goddamn stubborn?”

“Things you would have known if we’d spoken for more than nine seconds before getting engaged.”

His eyes narrow. “I think we’ve done more than speak for nine seconds.”

“Really? I’ve forgotten,” I say, casually shrugging.

“Some of us didn’t forget you drugging and robbing them,” he growls tightly. “Now stop being a pain in the ass and let me see your wound.”

“You’re bleeding, too.”

He glances down at his wrist, frowning, as if noticing the red on his skin for the first time.

“It’s not my blood,” he grunts, and wipes it off on his pants.

“Oh.”

“Now are you going to show me the wound, or am I going to cut this dress off you to see it?”

Without waiting for an answer, Kenzo drops to his knees right in front of me. I watch him almost in a daze as he takes the hem of my wedding gown in his hands and gently pushes it up over my knees. His big, veined hands slip easily around the back of my knee and thigh without any sort of care about invading my personal space. He lifts my leg a little, causing the dress to ride up higher on that side.

My face throbs as he leans closer, his brow furrowing.

“Where the fuck did you learn to dress a wound, TikTok?” he grunts, scowling at the admittedly half-assed job I did in the bathroom with three Band-Aids and some old wrap tape.

“It’s fine,” I mumble.

“It’s a fucking infection waiting to happen. Don’t move.”

Kenzo walks away, disappearing into the darkness outside the dim glow of the living room. He returns a few minutes later with a first aid kit.

Still shirtless.

Distractingly shirtless.

My head floats a little, the alcohol burning in my veins. Kenzo says nothing as he drops to his knees again in front of me. Once more, he pushes my knee to the side.

My breath catches sharply as his hand skims up my inner thigh to a few inches past my knee. His long, strong fingers grip the edge of the tape and the Band-Aids, and without any warning, he yanks my crappy bandage off.

“Shit!” I wince, hissing as my leg jerks back. “What the fuck!”

“Hold still,” he mutters without looking up at me. He grabs hold of my leg again, a little roughly—honestly, right now, I don’t mind—peers at the cut, then reaches down and brings up a wet antiseptic wipe. I hiss sharply as he dabs it on the small gash on my thigh.

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