Page 9 of Arran's Obsession

He didn’t move. “You’re worried about me?”

I was, but not for the reason he thought. Still, he wasn’t budging.

“Give me your wallet again for safekeeping, and I’ll trust you. Just keep your hands to yourself.”

This had him climbing the steps, hands shoved in his pockets. “Course I will.”

Upstairs, I let him into Dad’s flat, suddenly seeing it through the stranger’s eyes. I hadn’t grown up here, and none of the furniture was mine. Black mould stained the corners of the living room, the wallpaper peeling where I’d scrubbed it too many times. It was tidy, at least, no piles of beer cans littering thesurface from where Dad would spend days on the sofa. No long-legged Riordan taking up space.

Just me and the big man. In my home.

The moment he closed the door behind us, fresh wariness settled over me. Arran held something out, and I fixed my skittish gaze onto it. His wallet, his driving licence on top.

“Take it. Send a picture to a friend or a neighbour if you want.”

I accepted it, scanning the details automatically.

Arran Daniels, twenty-eight, the picture of him wildly handsome in a way that wasn’t fair on government ID. At least he’d been honest about his name.

He crossed the living room to the window I’d hailed him from and watched the street. “Who was in the car?”

I breathed out. “How did you see that? You had your back to the road.”

“I have ears, and I was looking right at you.”

Which meant he could read reactions. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. “Bad news. Hopefully he’s gone now.”

For a moment, Arran kept his gaze on the dark road then stalked to the dining table, claimed a chair, then took it right back to the window where he could be seen from outside. “I have to get to work soon but I’ll wait to be sure you’re safe.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. It’ll serve double duty if you show me that scratch of yours.”

I lifted my chin, not budging from my spot by the door. “You show me yours first.”

A pause, and a smirk replaced his neutral expression. Then the guy leaned forward and plucked his t-shirt right over his head, revealing his naked upper body. He rolled his shoulders. “I’m giving the bad-news brother a show from the window. Don’t be alarmed.”

Alarmed? I was anything but. My imagination had done a poor job of filling in the blanks of his shape. He was toned, but ruggedly male, too, with powerful muscles. Lines marked him, scars perhaps, and tattoos in black ink decorated his side. A black circle with an image in it. A skull. Goddamned mouthwatering.

Then I caught the shadow of a bruise at his shoulder. It had my feet moving until I was right in front of him.

“You hit the steering wheel when you braked for me.” My hand came up. I withdrew it. Touching him would be insane.

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you kidding? That’s a huge mark. I’m going to get something for it.”

“Not necessary,” he called after me.

“You’re not the only one with a first-aid kit,” I hollered back. In a few moments, I returned with cotton wool and a bottle of arnica. I soaked a handful of the wool in the medication then set the bottle onto the windowsill. “Want to do this or shall I?”

“What the hell is it?”

“Arnica? It brings out a bruise. Gets it healing faster.”

Arran wrinkled his nose, obviously dubious, but turned his head to indicate for me to proceed.

Leaning into his space, I extended my hand, trying to ignore the rush and rise of tension from how close we were. I dabbed his skin, the sharp tang of the arnica eclipsed by his much more pleasant scent. Something dark and masculine. It had me inching closer still.

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