Page 30 of Inception

“Are you okay?” he asked as he carefully wiped the sweat from my face. The cool wet cloth felt good against my skin.

“I think so,” I sighed, letting my eyes close.

“Does anything hurt?”

I shrugged, looking down at my torso and limbs, twisting my left arm around, and then my right. Shit. Blood—myblood.

“Oh my God, I’m bleeding!” I said stupidly.

He cupped his hand around my arm and held it out, examining the wound with careful eyes. His skin was considerably hotter than mine—if that was even possible—and even though the added heat should have bothered me, it didn’t.

“It’s just a scrape, you’ll survive,” he said quietly. “I’ll get a bandage.”

“It all happened so fast,” I noted, mostly to myself. “I guess I’m coming down with the flu or something.”

He got up and tossed the towel into the sink. “Yeah, or something,” he said, sounding frustrated.

I couldn’t tell where the aggravation was coming from but it was making me feel uncomfortable, like I was some sort of burden to him. The whole idea seemed ridiculous since I never asked for his help to begin with. I contemplated saying something to that effect but decided against it being that he was my boss’s son and all.

He opened up the bottom cabinet and pulled out a first aid kit and then returned to my side, pushing both his hands through his hair as he cleared the view in front of his eyes. His midnight black hair falling just short of his broad shoulders.

“Let me see your arm,” he said without making eye contact. His thick lashes fanned out, shielding those incredible eyes.

I held out my arm to him and looked away for a distraction. I found one in the chair I was sitting on and began picking away at a loose piece of material as he cleaned and bandaged my wound.

Neither one of us filled the silence.

“It’s probably that spell,” he finally said in a barely-there voice. He was still kneeling on the floor in front of me, picking up the scattered first aid supplies.

My eyes reduced to slits. “What did you say?”

He raised his eyes to mine, unreadable in every way. “That fainting spell that’s been going around,” he clarified. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. I feel much better.”

His mouth opened as though he were going to say something else, argue the point perhaps, but he just pressed his lips together and nodded instead.

After taking a few minutes to straighten myself out in the washroom, I headed back into the storeroom to pick up the napkins I’d gone in to get in the first place—before the room decided to go haywire on me. When I came back out, I found Trace in a heated discussion with his father at the foot end of the hall.

I could hardly make any of it out, though I could tell right away it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. From Trace’s rutted brows to his sharp hand gestures and quick body movements, everything about it screamed hostility. For a second, it looked like he might actually come to blows.

His father, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. His stance was relaxed and his movements fluid and calming. It was clear he was trying to tame the beast—his loose cannon of a son—and by the looks of it, he wasn’t doing a very good job.

I approached cautiously, like I was coming upon two animals in the wild, careful not to disturb them or make any sudden movements. That is, until I heard my name being spoken and then my back stiffened.

Why the heck were they talking about me?

What could they possibly be discussing aboutmethat would have Trace so fired up? Was he angry that I fainted in the storeroom? Was he worried that I’d become some kind of work liability? Something wasn’t adding up. Trace didn’t strike me as the type to worry about things like that. It had to be a mistake, I decided, though I continued moving forward slowly, absolutely intent onaccidentallyoverhearing their conversation.

“Karl has the final decision,” I heard Peter say, prompting me to move even faster now, to get as close as I could.

I made it all of three steps before Peter spotted me and quickly put the air brakes on in an effort to quiet his son. His resolve was nothing short of suspicious and only confirmed that they weredefinitelytalking about me.

Trace glanced back, though his head barely turned halfway in my direction before he got the message and aborted the conversation, escaping into the main hall instead.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on—here, at home, with my uncle—and I was over it. I was over the shady conversations, the secret phone calls, the cryptic explanations, the weird stares, all of it. They were hidingsomething, of this I was sure, and I was determined to figure out exactly what that was.

It was time to start tearing off the blinders.

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