Chapter 66 - 65 The Bite
EMILY
The cool night air is the only thing standing between me and spontaneous human combustion.
After being in the same room with Alistair for so long and hearing him say all those heart-fluttering things, I’m lucky I didn’t turn into a tomato.
I lean my hips against the stone balustrade and take a long, deep breath. The evening breeze sweeps across the sprawling estate gardens, carrying the sweet scent of blooming jasmine directly to my nose. The chill steadily draws the heat from my flushed cheeks. My embarrassment slowly recedes into the background, and after a few more deep breaths, my heart stops racing and returns to its normal beat.
I look down at my thickly wrapped hands. The throbbing pain is a sharp reminder of the day’s chaos and all the sacrifices I’ve been making recently. There’s pain, but there is also a fierce, undeniable energy that bubbles up inside my chest. I survived Silas Hunt. I secured the capital for my medical formula. I earned the right to attend Etland Medical University. I’m no longer a passive pawn waiting for the next disaster to strike. I’m building my own armor.
A sharp knock sounds from the bedroom door.
I turn away from the dark skyline and step back inside. The thick carpet muffles my footsteps. I reach the heavy oak door and pull the brass handle down with my elbow.
Leo stands in the hallway. His dark security suit is perfectly crisp. He holds a white plastic first-aid kit in his large hands.
"Mr. Wolfe requested I bring this to you, Ma’am," Leo says. He extends the box forward.
I take the kit gently. "Thank you, Leo."
He gives a single nod and steps away, disappearing down the long corridor.
I wonder for a few seconds about the kind of life Leo lived before he gained employment here. I know I probably won’t be able to guess, so I give up, walk over to the mattress, and set the white box on the edge of the bed.
A profound sense of warmth spreads through my ribs. Alistair Wolfe runs a massive global empire, yet he took the time to notice my poorly wrapped hands and dispatch his top security detail with medical supplies. The gesture is small, but it speaks volumes about his character.
I pop the plastic latches open. Rolls of medical tape, sterile gauze pads, and a brown bottle of iodine sit neatly organized inside. A small rectangular box rests right on top. I pick it up and inspect the cardboard packaging. It is a box of children’s adhesive bandages. Bright, colorful cartoon animals decorate the front.
A soft smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. He absolutely bought these specifically for Lily. The image of the towering, terrifying billionaire carefully applying a cartoon bandage to a little girl’s scraped knee is incredibly endearing.
The bathroom door opens with a soft click.
Alistair steps into the bedroom. Fresh steam billows out behind him, carrying the crisp scent of mint body wash and clean linen. He wears a fitted black t-shirt and dark cotton sleep trousers. The soft fabric clings to the hard, defined lines of his chest and broad shoulders. His dark hair is damp, falling slightly across his forehead and softening his usually severe features.
He walks straight toward the bed. His dark eyes lock onto my hands.
"The estate doctor only applied a topical ointment," Alistair says. His resonant voice fills the quiet room. "Raw abrasions require harsh disinfecting. You need iodine."
I take a step back. I look at the brown glass bottle sitting inside the kit. I know exactly what iodine feels like on exposed tissue. It feels like liquid fire.
"The ointment is fine," I say. I hide my hands behind my back. "The doctor cleaned it thoroughly. We don’t need to escalate the treatment."
Alistair ignores my protest entirely. He reaches into the white box. He pulls out the iodine bottle and a long wooden cotton swab. He unscrews the black plastic cap. The sharp, acrid smell of the antiseptic immediately fills the air.
"Give me your hand, Emily."
I press my lips together. I slowly bring my left hand forward, already anticipating the tingle of my skin when his hand touches mine.
Alistair takes my wrist. His large, warm fingers wrap securely around my skin. His grip is incredibly gentle, completely contrasting his imposing size. He holds my hand steady under the warm bedroom lighting. He dips the cotton swab into the brown liquid.
He presses the saturated cotton directly against the torn skin of my palm.
A sharp, stinging burn rockets up my arm. I wince violently. My breath hisses through my teeth. My fingers curl inward automatically, but his firm grip keeps my hand open. He works with slow, methodical precision. He coats every single raw scrape with the burning antiseptic. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t apologize. He simply ensures the wounds are perfectly clean.
He discards the dirty swab into a small wastebasket. He grabs a fresh roll of sterile gauze and begins wrapping my left hand. His movements are efficient and practiced, but I’m feeling all sorts of things that I shouldn’t be feeling.
"Now the right hand," he instructs.
I offer my right hand. This one took the brunt of the training pistol friction. The skin is completely shredded across the base of my fingers.
Alistair dips a new swab into the iodine. He presses it against the deepest abrasion.
Pure, blinding agony explodes across my palm. The pain is a hundred times worse than the left hand. My vision swims for a split second. A sharp, involuntary whimper escapes my throat.
I need an anchor. I need to bite down on something to stop myself from screaming out loud.
I lean forward instinctively. I open my mouth and clamp my teeth directly down onto Alistair’s solid forearm.
I bite him hard.
I taste salt and clean skin. The muscle beneath my teeth is rock solid. I squeeze my eyes shut and ride out the agonizing burn of the iodine.
Alistair doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull his arm away. He doesn’t even pause his movements. He continues to swab the raw tissue with absolute calm. The only indication he even feels my teeth in his arm is a slight tightening of his jaw.
He finishes the iodine application. He wraps the clean gauze around my right hand, securing it tightly with white medical tape.
"Done," he says.
I slowly release my bite. I open my eyes and pull back.
A perfect ring of red tooth marks decorates his tanned forearm. A very obvious, very shiny patch of my saliva glistens directly in the center of the bite mark.
Complete horror washes over me. I just bit a billionaire like a feral street dog.
"I’m...I’m so sorry," I stammer. I wipe my mouth with the back of my clean wrist. "The pain was intensely sharp. I acted purely on instinct. I completely ruined your arm."
Alistair looks down at the wet bite mark. He then looks up at my flushed face. His expression remains entirely unreadable.
"I need a clean shirt," Alistair says.
He turns around and walks across the bedroom. He steps into the massive walk-in closet and pulls the door shut behind him. I drop my head into my freshly bandaged hands and groan loudly into the empty room.
ALISTAIR
The heavy wooden door of the walk-in closet clicks shut. The automatic lights flare to life, illuminating rows of immaculate suits and tailored shirts.
I stop in the center of the dressing room. I lift my right arm.
The skin of my forearm is bright red. The distinct indentation of her teeth forms a perfect semi-circle against my muscle. The damp patch of her saliva cools against my skin in the conditioned air.
She bit me.
Emily Vance, the woman who calmly negotiated with a violent street thug just hours ago, panicked over a bottle of iodine and bit me like a frightened animal.
A quiet chuckle escapes my chest. The sound bounces off the cedar walls. I shake my head. She is an absolute paradox. She possesses the tactical brilliance of a seasoned corporate raider, yet she completely lacks basic composure in a quiet bedroom.
I grab a clean, dark grey t-shirt from a folded stack on the shelf. I pull the damp black shirt over my head and toss it into the laundry hamper. I slide the dry cotton over my shoulders. The soft fabric conceals the bite mark entirely.
I open the closet door and step back into the bedroom.
The space is completely silent. The bedside lamps are dimmed to a warm, golden glow.
I look toward the center of the room. Emily lies in the middle of the massive mattress. She is curled onto her side, facing the window. The thick down comforter is pulled all the way up to her chin. Her bandaged hands rest softly against the pillow. Her breathing is slow, deep, and perfectly even.
The chaotic adrenaline of the day finally caught up to her.
I walk quietly toward the foot of the bed. I study the relaxed curve of her cheek and the dark lashes resting against her pale skin. The fierce, defensive energy she carries all day is completely gone.
A wry smile touches the corners of my mouth.
"She’s asleep," I murmur to the empty room.
I turn away from the bed. I walk over to the long, dark leather sofa positioned near the balcony doors. I pick up a spare wool blanket resting on the armrest. I stretch my legs out across the leather cushions and pull the blanket over my chest. I close my eyes and listen to the quiet rhythm of her breathing.