Page 64 of Bad Little Bride

“So, you do pay attention to me.”

“You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“No more than you’re impossible to.”

My hand freezes a moment, but I snap out of it, tearing open the alcohol wipe and dabbing at the wound before stepping back.

“What, no Band-Aid?” he teases.

I roll my eyes and a low chuckle leaves him; it’s a soft, easy sound I don’t hate.

He looks around the room then, assessing the way I live. He takes note of how my cappuccino cup is sitting beneath the spout, waiting for me to simply press the button to get it going, and at the pair of slippers at the very edge of the bed. He looks to the book sitting beside the bedside lamp, a Post-it note tucked inside as a placeholder, and to the one lying open and upside down on the balcony. He notices the desk that’s still shovedagainst one side and the bed pushed farther than it should be, no longer even with the center of the wall.

Confusion creases his forehead, but his eyes continue to roam, and mine fall to the strong stretch of his neck. To the tattoo there.

To my mark.

Hesitantly, I reach up, my fingers shaking as I skate them along his skin.

Enzo jolts with shock and I hold still, but then he stretches his neck further, his legs falling open wider. With a steady breath, I step closer, applying a little more pressure with my touch.

In my peripheral, Enzo’s eyes close, and a smile twitches at my lips, but I pull them between my teeth to keep it at bay.

Big bad Enzo Fikile can’t possibly be touch-starved, can he?

“It’s starting to scab. You need to put some salve on it.”

He hums, not moving a fraction of an inch. “Been meaning to.”

I go to step back, but eyes closed and all, his hand latches around my wrist.

“I…I’ll be right back,” I tell him and I’m not sure why I think he wants to confirm as much, but when he gives a single, curt nod, letting me go, I decide it was the right thing to say.

Stepping into the bathroom, I pull in a long breath, willing my hands to stop shaking as I dig open the small drawer in the vanity, pulling out the little jar.

When I turn around, now facing the open doorway, a sharp inhale fills my lungs.

Enzo is tracking my every move and continues to do so as I slowly make my way back. His legs are still wide open, so I gingerly step between them, holding the bottle up for him to read when he gives it a questioning glance.

He lifts a brow, looking from it to me. “Why do you have tattoo salve?”

I smirk, unscrewing the lid and dipping my finger inside. So, Grandma didn’t ask permission to get the things I asked for from the department store.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, and I choose to pretend he didn’t speak.

Enzo cocks his head, and this time, his eyes stay glued on my face as I rub the cool, Vaseline-like ointment across the shape of my lips on his neck.

His skin is warm against my touch, almost as if melting the salve on contact, and I tell myself that’s why I glide my fingers over the space more times than necessary.

“Thank you,” I finally whisper, and our eyes meet. “For the knives.”

Enzo stares as if contemplating a response, and only when I look away does he say, “I had them made for you when I was in Costa Rica.”

My chest clenches and our gazes lock once more.

When he was in Costa Rica.

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