Olivia Middleton cares for me, of that I am certain. She doesn’t want me to get hurt, and more than that, she wants me to heal. But she doesn’t care about me for me, for who I am. And for reasons I can’t bear to explore, that hurts more than my leg and bloody nose combined.

I don’t open my eyes when I hear the rustle of her standing up, nor when I hear the door close quietly behind her. Apparently her patience for sitting with a pathetic invalid has its limits.

I take a large swallow of Scotch and tell myself I don’t give a shit. I tell myself that I want to be alone and that I need to get used to being alone. Although I’m half terrified that if she leaves—when she leaves—being alone will no longer be a respite. It’ll simply be lonely.

Five minutes later the door opens again. I don’t look at her as she approaches. I don’t want her to read the relief there.

Olivia doesn’t reclaim her spot on her chair. This time she settles on the arm of my chair, her small, perfect ass just inches from my arm. I tense. What the hell is she up to?

It finally registers that she hasn’t come back in empty-handed. She takes my drink from my hand and sets it on the table. I let her.

My eyes watch her hands as they dunk a clean white washcloth into a bowl of steaming water. I watch her long fingers wring it out. I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, even as I long for it.

Neither of us meets the other’s eyes as she slowly reaches out a hand,

She hesitates an inch away from my face before softly, carefully setting the warm washcloth against my skin. I let my eyes close once more.

She wipes gently at the cut before dipping the cloth back into the bowl. The process repeats. Dunk. Wring. Hesitate. Touch.

I don’t miss the fact that she’s careful not to touch my scars. I don’t blame her.

Finally she drops the cloth back into the bowl, although she doesn’t move off my chair. “I don’t think your nose is broken,” she says, finally ending our silence. “But I’ll get you some ice.”

She shifts her weight as if to get up, and I’m shocked to feel myself reach out with a quick, desperate touch to her leg. Stay. She stays.

The relief I feel at her continued presence doesn’t prepare me for what happens next.

She touches me. Not with the cloth, but with warm, gentle fingers. It’s harmless at first. Just a soft stroke along my hairline. She traces my eyebrow. My cheekbone. She cups my jaw, and I let my cheek turn toward the warmth of her hand. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me. As long as she stays on the left side of my face—my good side—I’d let her touch me forever.

But she doesn’t stay on the left side. My heart stops when I feel her other hand touch my right temple.

I try to jerk away, but now she’s cupping my face. Don’t, I silently beg her.

She does.

I suck in a breath as she tenderly, reverently runs one gentle finger over the top of my right cheekbone. Then lower.

She’s touching my scars. And I’m letting her.

The three lines running down my face have always reminded me of a wolverine slash. As though some clawed animal swiped at my face instead of a cruel Afghani with a blade and an agenda. She traces each one gently, thoughtfully, as though she can heal them with her touch.

The touches finally stop, and I feel the loss acutely as her hands drop away from her face. I feel it even more when she stands, starting to gather the bowl of bloodied water.

“I’ll get you that ice.”

I touch her again, this time on the wrist, like before silently begging her to stay, but this time she gently pulls away, and I let her go.

I get up and walk to the fire, staring quietly into the flames, lost in thoughts of Olivia and the danger she represents.

This time, when she comes back, I’m ready for her.

She stands before me, offering the ice pack. When I ignore it she frowns a little, as though I’m a petulant child disobeying his nanny’s instructions.

Fuck that. I knock the ice pack out of her hand, and before it even hits the ground, one hand finds the back of her waist, pulling her gently but firmly toward me. The other hand slides gently beneath her hair, settling against the smooth skin of her the back of her neck.

I’ve told myself over and over that I won’t kiss her again. That she’ll kiss me.

But I’m not above luring her in. I want her. I want her so badly it hurts.

My eyes meet hers, watching as her shock fades to desire. She wants me too.

I purposely move my gaze to her mouth. Kiss me, I silently beg. And then I say it out loud. “Kiss me, Olivia.”

She shakes her head once.

“Please,” I whisper. I don’t care if I’m begging. I don’t care if she kisses me out of pity. I need her.

Her eyes go dark, and I brace myself for her to pull away.

Instead she moves closer until we’re chest to chest, her eyes level with my chin. My arm goes more firmly around her back, my other hand toying with the soft hair at the base of her neck.

Her hands move to my hips, and my heart beats harder.

Slowly, slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes moving from my chin to my mouth.

I can’t wait any longer. I dip my head, tilting it to the right just slightly as I press my lips to hers, just briefly. Then again, longer this time.

When I move in the third time, her mouth collides with mine.

The kiss is hot and hungry, somehow managing to be slow and frantic at the same time. At my hips, her hands pull at the fabric of my T-shirt, holding me closer, and my arm is all the way around her now as my other hand presses at the back of her neck, keeping her lips fused to mine.