Chapter 5 #2
He settles onto the couch with the careful deliberation of a man who has learned the hard way that human furniture is fragile, and the visual contrast is so absurd that I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud.
Knox Bloodaxe, Conqueror of the Northern Markets, Vanquisher of the Quarterly Report, is sitting on my grandmother's floral sofa with his knees practically up around his ears and his elbows tucked carefully against his sides to avoid knocking over the lamp on the end table.
The pink cushions sag dramatically under his weight, and the springs creak in protest, but somehow the ancient sofa holds together, proving itself worthy of its survivor status.
I retreat to the bathroom to retrieve my first aid kit, a professional-grade case that I bought during a particularly anxious period in my early twenties when I was convinced that I needed to be prepared for any possible medical emergency.
The kit is overstocked to an almost ridiculous degree, containing everything from basic bandages to emergency suture supplies that I have never once needed to use, and I carry it back to the living room with the focused determination of someone who has finally been given a task she can accomplish without fumbling.
"Jacket off," I order, settling onto the coffee table in front of him so that I'm at roughly neck height, which is the best I can manage given our respective sizes. "I need to see what I'm working with."
Knox complies without argument, shrugging out of the ruined Armani with a grace that really shouldn't be possible for someone with shoulders that broad, and I'm confronted for the second time today with the reality of what lies beneath his expensive human clothing.
His shirt is still intact, pristine white cotton stretched tight across muscles that look like they were carved from green marble by a sculptor with very specific ideas about masculine perfection, and I have to force myself to focus on the injured arm rather than letting my gaze wander across the expanse of his torso and shoulders.
The cut is shallow, as he said, but longer than I initially estimated—a clean slice about four inches along the outside of his forearm, the edges already beginning to knit together with a speed that confirms his earlier comment about Orc healing capabilities.
The bleeding has mostly stopped, leaving only a thin line of dried blood crusted along the wound, and I pull on a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit before I begin the careful process of cleaning away the debris and disinfecting the area.
"You don't need to do this." He's quieter than I've heard it before, stripped of the bombastic confidence he wields like a weapon in the boardroom. "The wound is superficial. It will heal on its own before morning."
"I know." I dab antiseptic along the cut with more concentration than the task strictly requires, focusing on the movement of my hands rather than the intensity of his gaze.
"But you got hurt protecting me—protecting the company, protecting the plans we need to save everyone's jobs—and even if it's just a scratch, I want to make sure it heals properly.
Call it a compulsion. Call it gratitude.
Call it whatever you want, but I'm doing this, so just sit there and let me finish. "
He's silent for a long moment, watching my hands as I apply a thin layer of antibiotic ointment and begin carefully positioning butterfly bandages along the length of the cut.
The work is delicate and requires my full attention, but I'm hyperaware of his nearness anyway—the warmth radiating from his skin like a furnace, the scent of him filling my nostrils with every breath I take, something wild and earthy and masculine that doesn't belong in my tiny apartment but somehow fits perfectly against the backdrop of my grandmother's flowers and my secondhand furniture.
"Why did you stay?"
The question catches me off guard, and I fumble the last bandage, pressing it crookedly across the wound and having to peel it back and reposition it before I can answer.
"What do you mean? When the takeover happened?
I stayed because you offered me triple my salary and the alternative was unemployment in this economy, which seemed like a poor career choice. "
"No." He shifts on the couch, the movement bringing him closer to me. "In the alley. When the attackers came. You did not run. You did not scream for help or attempt to flee. You stayed, and you watched, and when I turned to find you, you were still there."
"Where else was I going to go? It's not like I could outrun them.
And besides—" I peel off my gloves and drop them into the small trash bag from my kit, busying my hands with the mundane task of cleanup so that I don't have to look directly at him.
"Besides, you were fighting them. For me.
For the company. For the briefcase full of plans we spent all afternoon putting together.
I wasn't going to just abandon you to deal with that alone, even if the only thing I could do was stand there and try not to hyperventilate. "
He leans forward, and suddenly his face is very close to mine, his golden eyes filling my field of vision and his breath warm against my neck in a way that sends shivers cascading down my spine.
I can see every detail of his features from this distance—the slight roughness of his green skin, the darker green of his lips, the way his tusks curve upward from his lower jaw in a way that should be intimidating but somehow isn't, not when he's looking at me like that, like I'm something precious and confusing and worth examining more closely.
"Cypress Evans. Valkyrie of Commerce."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes?"
He leans closer still, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, and the words he whispers there make my heart stutter in me and my fingers clench against the coffee table.
"Tell me truthfully. Where does your loyalty lie?"