Page 44 of Sinful Games

She usually had that smart-ass mouth of hers spitting out the most obnoxious shit, but tonight, she was disturbingly quiet, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. She didn’t say a word as we made our way from the car to the elevator, even when she stumbled slightly. Instinctively, I reached out, my hands gripping her hips to steady her.

“You okay?”

She held her breath for a moment, her only answer a barely perceptible nod.

I stayed there a second longer, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

It’s too fucking addicting.

The elevator door slid open. I stepped back, letting my hands drop, trembling from the lingering contact with her body, as an elderly woman with a tiny poodle stepped out and gave us a polite “Good night.”

When the elevator doors closed, we were alone in the tight space. She stared at her shoes, gripping her bag like a lifeline, avoiding my eyes.

“Alexsei, I—” she started, but the elevator’s soft ping interrupted her. She stopped dead in her tracks, shaking her head like she was trying to shake off whatever was going on in her head.

It was the first time my name had slipped out of her mouth, and a deep, primal satisfaction roared through me. I could feel it pounding in my chest, like I’d just scored some twisted, personal trophy for her finally acknowledging my pathetic existence.

Without another word, she swiftly exited the lift, striding briskly towards my door.

Following closely behind, I hastened to open the door for her, reaching out to take her bag and coat.

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable," I said, leading the way to the couch and motioning for her to sit. "I've got a vinyl player if you're up for some music, the TV's right there, or my office has books and board games. I'll give you a shout when everything's set."

She followed me, now without her heels, still managing to reach up to my chest, despite being quite tall herself. It crossed my mind that I could easily lift her with one arm, but I quickly banished those thoughts, not wanting to go downthatpath.

"Can I..." she started, her cheeks tinted red. "Can I watch you cook?"

"Sure, come on," I replied, leading the way to the kitchen. "Wine?"

She shook her head. "Just water, thank you."

As I started to clean my hands, a sudden, searing twinge of pain shot through me, making me flinch without meaning to. She spotted my hands just as blood began to ooze from the cuts, staining my palms with a dark, spreading red.

She grabbed my hands, her eyes widening in shock. “Your hands… You need stitches!”

I tried to brush it off. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

“Stop being stubborn. Where’s your bathroom? Let me clean these up.”

“Caia, seriously, it’s fine. Doesn’t even hurt.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Oh really?” She dug her nails into the cuts, and a loud, unintentional growl slipped out of me.

“Caia–”

She turned off the faucet. Her emerald eyes darkened in impatience. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Realizing her stubbornness matched my own, I gave inand led her to the bathroom, pointing out the cabinet with the first aid supplies. She guided me to sit on the edge of the bath with a firm yet surprisingly gentle hand. As she worked on my wounds, her fingertips grazed my skin, sending shivers through me. Her eyes lingered on my hand, tracing it with a gaze that felt almost physical. Her breath brushed against me.

The warm water washed away the blood, revealing deeper gashes than I’d thought—seems I wasn’t just being dramatic.

When she carefully extracted two small pieces of glass, a sharp sting made me fucking wince. “What happened?” she asked.

“Work,” I mumbled.

As she skillfully wrapped my palms, she assured me stitches wouldn’t be necessary but said she’d need to check them in a few days to make sure there was no infection.

While she continued bandaging, I found myself fixated on her hands, watching the way she worked with precision and unexpected care.

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