Page 19 of Laila Manning
He backed up toward the security room again and nodded to the rest of the house behind the kitchen. “Go enjoy the rest of your night, Laila.”
“Where are you going?” I questioned, “Is someone going to help you with that?”
He shrugged, watching me closely. “I don’t need any help. I’m just going to take the mess to my apartment.”
“What if you can’t get it stopped?” I rambled. “What if you need help? Can the guards help you?”
He tilted his head and kept watching me, like a puzzle he was trying to figure out. “I’m a big boy, Laila. I can take care of it.”
The idea of him going to his apartment alone while I was stuck here for another few hours waiting for Ryker and Ellie to return stressed me out, so I spoke up again. “No one will know if you pass out or something. You can’t go lock yourself away alone.”
“Are you worried about me?” There was something so intimidating about his penetrating stare, and I, of course, dropped it, unable to even meet a weak man’s gaze regularly. And Zeke was anything but weak.
“No,” I replied instantly, stepping backward and shaking my head at the ridiculous notion.
“Hmm.” He hummed, putting his hand on the door handle, and nodding to me. “Stupid me thought maybe you forgot to turn the clock off on our little friendship experiment the other day.” He joked. “Don’t worry about me, I can handle this.”
“Stop.” I barked, making the man freeze in his steps, once again facing me. “I’ll do it. Come here.” I nodded to the stool at the island and rolled my sleeves up. “Sit.”
He raised his eyebrows and took a step closer. “Since when are you bossy?”
“Since you’re threatening to bleed out on your apartment floor because your toxic masculinity is stopping you from asking for help. Now sit down.”
He put the bin on the counter and sat down on the stool, leaning back against the bar behind him. “Can you touch me, Laila?” His voice was deep and filled with gravel that made it feel like my entire body vibrated around the words. “I’m a half-dressed man, and you have to touch me to help me.”
I opened the bin and started taking out what supplies I would need to close his wound. “I’ll just pretend you’re someone else.”
He snorted and smirked at me, and a part of me ached to see his full face without his dark beard so I could see if the dimple in his cheek was as deep as I imagined it would be.
“Who are you pretending I am?”
I poured antiseptic onto a few gauze pads and started wiping away the blood around his wound, waiting for him to flinch when the liquid penetrated the angry red muscle, but he didn’t so much as blink. “A harmless old lady.” I shrugged. “Too frail and slow to be a threat.”
He smirked again and looked up at the ceiling with that devilish grin on his face as he let me work. “And is it helping you feel safe?”
“A little.” I shrugged again, focused on my task. “Stay still,” I ordered when he raised his arm, and the muscle I was working on flexed.
Do not stare at his moving pecks.
Do not stare at his moving pecks.
How did guys do that, anyway? It was unfair.
“I am still.”
“You’re fidgeting.” I countered.
“I’mnota fidgeter.” He scoffed. “I do not fidget.”
“Now you’re rambling, Granny.” I deadpanned, fighting my smirk. But when he opened his mouth and laughed at the ceiling, I was in awe of him, suddenly unable to care about the volume of blood he was losing.
Thankfully, it only lasted a second before I snapped myself out of it and got back to work.
“Okay, spitfire.” He relaxed, looking down at my work. “I’ll be a good boy and sit still. But just because it’s you.”
I shook my head, grabbing the bottle of medical-grade skin glue and holding it up to him. “Are you ready?”
“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at me and then chuckled. “Do your worst, Doc.”
