Page 3 of Her Outlaw Prisoner
“No.”
Liar.
I chuckle, low and quiet. “You should be.”
That makes her pause again. Those hazel eyes flick up, meeting mine for the first time since I walked in here. Up close, they’re even more striking. Wide, expressive. Easy to read.
Right now, they’re filled with curiosity and a hint of anxiety.
I tilt my head slightly, watching her watch me.
“Eleanor,” I say, testing her name on my tongue.
She inhales sharply, her lips parting slightly, and I see the way her throat moves as she swallows. She doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell me to call her something else.
Good.
For the first time in five years, something stirs in my chest, something unexpected. Excitement? Anticipation? I can’t tell, but whatever it is, one thing is for sure. The next few days, maybe weeks, in Oakdale are about to get interesting.
Seems like I’ll be at the infirmary quite a lot.
Eleanor doesn’t move for a long moment. Her fingers are still pressed lightly against my skin, the antiseptic pad hovering near the cut like she’s forgotten what she was doing. She blinks once, twice, then finally looks away, clearing her throat.
“I’m Ronan,” I say when she doesn’t say anything. “Ronan Callahan.”
“You should hold still,” she murmurs, voice steadier than I expect. “Ronan,” she adds, and I can hear the hint of amusement in her voice.
I smirk. “Maybe you should hold on harder.”
That makes her press the gauze against my wound a little too firmly. A stinging sensation spreads across my temple, sharp and burning. I don’t even flinch. If anything, it makes me more interested. She has some fight in her, buried under all that sweetness.
“That stings,” I say after a beat, watching the way she moves, how she focuses too hard on her work, as if ignoring me will make me disappear.
“Maybe you should avoid getting into fights, then,” she replies. I can tell she’s barely holding back from rolling her eyes.
I chuckle, a soft, amused sound. “Who says I was fighting?”
She pauses to look at me, her lips pressed together like she’s thinking about what I just said. Like she’s really thinking about it.
“You weren’t fighting?” she asks finally, voice quieter, but there’s an edge of curiosity to it.
I let a smirk tug at my lips. She’s smart. Smarter than I expected.
I don’t answer. Just tilt my head slightly, letting the silence stretch between us. I want to see how she reacts to it. If she fidgets…if she gets nervous…
She does. Her fingers tighten around the gauze, and her hazel eyes flick down to my lips before she catches herself and looks away.
Interesting.
She turns back to the tray beside her, grabbing a fresh piece of gauze. “Well, whatever happened, this will probably need stitches.”
She’s changing the subject. I let her. For now.
The only sound is the distant echo of voices outside, the occasional crackle of a radio from the guard stationed near the door. But all of that fades into the background. Right now, there’s only her. Just the two of us in this small room.
She steps closer, reaching for a suture kit. I don’t move, don’t flinch, don’t do a damn thing but watch.
She’s so damn beautiful it feels almost surreal…
