Chapter 7
HE’S CLEANING MY WOUND AND CASUALLY THREATENING TO WHAT NOW? #REDFLAGORMARRIAGEMATERIAL
DAKOTA
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to tug my wrist free.
But Axel didn’t let go. Didn’t even acknowledge my protest. He just started walking, practically dragging me down the hallway toward his bathroom, his grip firm but careful around my injury.
“Axel, it’s barely bleeding. Most people wouldn’t even have noticed—”
“I’m not most people.” He pushed open the bathroom door and guided me inside with a hand on my lower back that sent an unwanted jolt down my spine.
The bathroom was all dark tile and brushed nickel fixtures. Masculine. Clean. Almost aggressively impersonal. No photos, no clutter, nothing that said anyone actually lived here. The air was still humid from his shower, warm and close, carrying that Sandalwood scent that was distinctly him.
The shower. Jesus. Minutes ago, he’d been naked in this very room, water running over—
I shook the thought away as he released me, dropping to one knee to open the cabinet under the sink.
I blinked at what I saw. Everything had a place.
First aid kit front and center, toiletries lined up with military precision, spare towels folded in perfect thirds.
Not the chaotic jumble of half-empty bottles and forgotten products I’d expected from a bachelor.
Not many people had probably seen under Axel Pierce’s bathroom sink; it felt strangely intimate, this glimpse of how he organized his private space.
How he kept everything controlled, contained.
He emerged with the first aid kit and slapped it onto the counter with enough force to make the contents rattle, the sharp sound echoing off the tile.
“You know, this is completely unnecessary. It’s just a scratch.”
“A scratch that made you gasp in pain.” His jaw was still tight, that muscle jumping again beneath the stubble. “I’ll ask one more time. Did someone do that to you?”
The intensity in his voice made my stomach flip. “Yes.”
His eyes flared, something dangerous sparking in their depths.
I rolled mine. “Me. I did it to myself.”
He stared at me for a long moment, those sapphire eyes searching my face like he was trying to detect any hint of a lie. Then he exhaled roughly and ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it in a way that should not have been attractive but absolutely was.
“How?” The word came out clipped.
“Um, a board. I was helping my mom with something.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept watching me with that unnerving focus while he moved to the sink and turned on the water.
I tried not to stare at the tattoos that decorated his forearms. The ink shifted and flexed as he lathered antibacterial soap between his palms, washing with the kind of methodical care that suggested he was trying to calm himself down.
God, those hands. Long fingers. Strong but elegant. The same hands that had caged me against the desk, that had traced my jaw with devastating gentleness.
The same hands that had held me like I might break.
“Why?” I asked, more to distract myself from the direction of my thoughts than anything else.
“Why what?” He dried his hands on a towel, movements controlled. Precise.
“Why do you care if someone hurt me?”
Axel opened the first aid kit without looking at me. “Because if someone hurt you, that would have been the end of him.”
The casual violence in his tone shouldn’t have sent heat pooling low in my belly. It really shouldn’t have.
But it did.
“You’re serious,” I breathed.
“Completely.” He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. “Now give me your hand.”
I hesitated, suddenly aware that letting him touch me again felt dangerous for reasons that had nothing to do with the cut.
“Dakota.” My name was a command. A plea. “Please.”
That single word—please—coming from Axel’s mouth, undid something in me. I extended my hand slowly, watching as he took my wrist with a gentleness that seemed impossible from someone so clearly furious.
His fingers were warm against my skin as he carefully peeled away the bandage. The adhesive pulled slightly, and I bit my lip against the sting.
“Sorry,” he murmured, and the unexpected apology made my heart do something stupid in my chest.
When the bandage came free, he studied the cut with an intensity that made me feel exposed. It wasn’t that bad, honestly. A clean slice across my palm, less than two inches long.
His fingers tightened around the discarded bandage, crumpling it into a tight ball. “We should call Blake to look at this.”
Blake was an ER doctor who tended to actual life-threatening injuries. “It’s a scratch,” I protested.
His ocean-colored gaze snapped to mine. “How many bandages have you bled through?”
“Two, but only because I didn’t let it clot properly. See?” I tried to sound dismissive. “It’s not bleeding anymore. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Just a flesh wound,” he repeated flatly. Then, before I could argue further, he turned on the tap and guided my hand under the water.
The spray hit the cut, and I hissed softly. Axel’s thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. Once, twice, in silent apology, and I forgot how to breathe.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said quietly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He worked in silence, one hand cradling mine while the other carefully cleaned around the wound. The antibacterial soap stung, but I barely noticed. I was too focused on the furrow between his brows, the way his lips pressed together in concentration, the surprising tenderness in every movement.
No one had ever taken care of me like this. Like I was something precious. Like my pain mattered.
“Why are you being so …” Nice. Kind. “Careful?”
His hands stilled for a moment. “Would you prefer I be rough?”
“I’d prefer you be consistent.” I tried to inject some levity into my tone, but it came out softer than intended. “Five minutes ago, you were tearing apart my entire life philosophy. Now you’re playing doctor.”
“Maybe I contain multitudes.”
“Or maybe you’re just confusing.”
He pressed his lips together like he was fighting back a grin. “Probably that.”
He turned off the water and reached for a fresh, clean towel, patting my hand dry with the same maddening gentleness. His fingers lingered against my skin longer than necessary, and when I looked up, I found him already watching me.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something real. Something that explained why he’d gone from disgusted by my curated life to furious that I was hurt. Something that would make sense of the way he was looking at me right now, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve but desperately wanted to.
Instead, he cleared his throat and reached for the antibiotic ointment.
“This might sting,” he warned.
It did, but barely. I was too distracted by the feel of his fingertip spreading the cream across my palm, the warmth of his other hand still cradling my wrist, the way he bent slightly closer to see better.
He applied the bandage with the same careful precision, smoothing down the edges, checking twice that it was secure. Then he just … held my hand. His thumb traced an absent pattern across my wrist, right where my pulse hammered against his skin.
“There,” he said finally, but he didn’t let go.
Neither did I.
We stood there in the quiet bathroom, his hand wrapped around mine, both of us breathing a little too fast. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his gaze drifting to my mouth.
This was dangerous. This moment, this man, the way my entire body was leaning toward him like he had his own gravitational pull.
Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t read into this.
“Why are you doing this?” The question came out more defensive than I intended.
He blinked, and something shuttered in his expression. His hand loosened around mine, and I felt the loss of his warmth like a physical ache.
“You’re Knox’s little sister.” He stepped back to throw away the old bandage and used supplies. “If you’re hurt on my watch, I’m going to take care of it.”
The words landed like ice water dumping over the fire of a teenage fantasy.
Knox’s little sister.
Right. Of course. That’s all this was. An obligation. A responsibility he’d shouldered because of my brother, not because of me.
I’d known that. I knew that. So, why did hearing him say it out loud feel like something sharp twisting between my ribs?
Because for a second there—with his thumb tracing patterns on my wrist, with the way he’d looked at me—I’d been stupid enough to let my guard slip. To almost believe this intensity, this care, had something to do with Dakota and not just Knox’s little sister, who’d gotten herself hurt on his watch.
God, I was an idiot.
“Right,” I managed, pulling my hand back and cradling it against my chest. My newly bandaged, carefully tended, obligatory hand. “Of course. Knox.”
I turned toward the door before the humiliation could fully register on my face.
“Dakota—”
“Thanks for the bandage,” I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded despite the tightness in my throat. “I should get ready for tonight.”
I left the bathroom before he could say anything else. Before I could do something truly pathetic.
Like ask him why he’d touched me so carefully if I was just a responsibility.
Why he’d looked at me like that if this was only about Knox.
Why I’d been dangerously close to believing, just for one stupid moment, that maybe I was more than an obligation to him.