Page 66 of Santa Daddy
“Let me see,” he said.
“No, thanks.” I jerked my hand away. “Pretty sure I remember how Band-Aids work.”
“Dani.” My name came out like a warning.
He reached for my wrist again.
I grabbed the nearest object—the expensive art-deco lamp on the edge of the desk—and flung it at his head.
He ducked like he’d been waiting for it. The lamp shattered against the wall in a spray of crystal and glass, raining down over the marble.
It was satisfying for half a second.
Then he straightened.
He was smiling.
Not nice. Not kind.
Interested.
“Did you miss me?” he asked, as if I hadn’t just tried to take his head off.
“Not as much as I miss my freedom, my phone, and my basic human rights,” I snapped. “And for the record, if I wanted you dead, I’d aim lower.”
“Good to know.” He stepped in, crowding my space until the desk dug into the backs of my legs. “Let me see your hand.”
“You’re bleeding too,” I countered, flicking my gaze to his knuckles. “What did you punch this time, Santa? A reindeer?”
His mouth twitched. “Business.”
Right. Business that put other people’s faces in the path of his hands.
“It needs cleaning,” he added, nodding at my hand. “You do it wrong, you get infection. You like finding out what sepsis feels like?”
“Stop pretending you give a shit except for how it reflects on you,” I said, heartbeat loud in my ears. “A sick pet is a bad look for the villain.”
Something in his expression cooled.
He took my wrist anyway.
His grip was firm. Not gentle. Not cruel. Efficient.
He pulled me out of the office and into the kitchen, my bare feet slipping a little on the glass dust and marble. Opened a drawer. Pulled out a first-aid kit that would make an ER nurse tear up.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at one of the stools.
I didn’t.
He stepped closer until ignoring him meant putting my face in his chest.
I sat.
Warm water hit my knuckles, stinging as it washed away blood. We both watched the pink swirl down the drain.
“This needs to be disinfected,” he said. “You try to impress me with your pain tolerance, I am not.”
“You’re not impressing me with your bedside manner either,” I shot back.
