Page 42 of The Sound of Seduction
“Because he’s intimidated by your title.”
“And you’re not?” He raised a brow, nearly giddy for her sly retort. Truth be told, he loved the fact that she didn’t mind formalities. And when she did, she erred. Perfect. These days, honesty was rare to come by, especially as a royal fourth son.
“This—” she drew an imaginary circle around his head, “needs work.”
His brow lifted faintly, his own challenge lighting his tone. “So, you think you can do better?”
Wendy stood perfectly still for a moment, her gaze holding his like a hand brushing the surface of a flame. That spark between them caught again—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore. Then, as though the idea required no particular weight of thought, she turned just enough to glance over her shoulder.
Her words came lightly, lazily hedged in amusement, yet they landed with startling precision.
“Absolutely. As soon as I change your bandage.”
*
Wendy bent toplace the bowl of water on the table near his chair, her movements deliberate yet unhurried. The light in the room was muted, softened by the overcast sky outside Stan’s chamber. Her gaze flicked to him—dark brown waves unruly as they fell across his forehead and curled at his crown and nape. Longer than a prince’s hair ought to be, certainly, but there was something else beneath the untamed locks, something far more captivating.
He was still recovering, yes, but even that couldn’t disguise the pull she felt. His presence had an undeniable gravity that drew her in.
She had seen him at his most vulnerable. Sweat-soaked and feverish, an injured warrior’s body—a man—battling his demons. And now, to see him upright, even flirtatious, an undercurrent of strength animated every movement he made. That strength drew her in until even breathing felt magnetic and it was so hard to fight the attraction.
“Don’t tell me nurses are in the habit of cutting hair,” he said, the lilt in his tone as teasing as the amused arch of his brow.
Wendy allowed him only the shadow of a smile. “I can’t speak for most nurses, but I’ve had very comprehensive training. A brother who’s an eye surgeon ensured I could learn everything he could teach me.”
Stan crossed his arms, leaning back slightly, an inquisitive tilt softening his usual royal demeanor. “You cut Nick’s hair, then? Your mysterious skill has nothing to do with being a nurse.”
Oh, he was sharp. The way his lips slightly curved pulled the words from him like silk from a spool, making mischief simmer beneath the room’s quiet lull. Wendy pressed her lips together and looked away before her smile betrayed her amusement.
“You know,” he continued, with a faintly conspiratorial edge, “I have a sister too. You can’t fool me.”
She breathed softly, steadying. Fooling him wasn’t what she wanted. Touching him, though… well, that was a different matter entirely. Her fingers tingled at the thought.
“Please pull your shirt down. I’ll change your bandage,” she said evenly, concealing those betraying impulses.
His hesitation was brief, just a fraction of a second before his hands reached up to untie the collar and, with a practiced tug, pulled free the fastening at his shirt. He crossed his arms and pulled the hem of his shirt first and then over his head to reveal… well… his entire torso in all its muscular glory.
Wendy did not mean to look. Truly, she did not. But her gaze couldn’t seem to obey her better judgment, drawn, as if by its own will, to the sight before her.
His shirt, discarded in a casual heap, left every inch of him on display.
The planes of his torso were defined, each muscle standing out as if carved, the faintest shadow tracing beneath each line.His shoulders were broad, strong, and purposeful, tapering down to a chest that suggested strength held firmly in control. Beneath his skin, the sinew shifted with every small movement he made—a turn of his head, the subtle stretch of his arm—each motion revealing the seamless coordination of form and function. The perfection was almost unsettling. He resembled the ideal proportions Wendy had once seen sketched in a reproduction of a Leonardo da Vinci sketch belonging to her brother, though Prince Stan felt more vivid, more alive than any preserved parchment could capture.
Her breath shallowed, though she quickly pressed her lips together—anything to stop herself from making a sound.
The wound.
Tend to the bandage.
With the small scissors from her tray, she cut the muslin and peeled it off carefully.
Wendy frowned slightly as she leaned in, examining the healing gash. The deep cut was closed now, the angry flush faded, and the swelling in the area greatly reduced.
“You’re healing well,” she said as she discarded the old bandage with the faint yellow crusted edges. It assured her that nature was taking her due course, and her prince was recovering.
Not. Your. Prince.
Her hands worked carefully, deft fingers unwinding the older muslin before reaching for fresh strips. She didn’t rush. The muslin lay smooth between her fingers as she carefully folded it, her touch deliberate as she spread the chamomile and calendula salve over the wound. Why, she hadn’t even the grace to glance away! The warmth of his skin met the cool balm—almost intimately, almost tenderly. And just like the balm melted, so did the distance between them.
