Chapter 52

**G R A C E**

I hate that I can still smell her perfume—the girl from the party. The one clinging to his arm like a lifeline, her giggles cutting through the noise every time she looked up at him. My stomach twists at the memory, and I can't help but picture her dancing with him, pressing close. God, I hate it. But it’s not like it matters. What does he care about how I feel?

I expect my comment about her to make him angry. To make him shut down and give me that cold, indifferent look like I’m nothing more than an annoyance. Instead, he surprises me. He walks around the bed slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and stops right in front of me.

Instinctively, I take a step back. Stupid. That small movement gives me away, showing him just how much his presence unnerves me. His lips twitch, almost amused by it.

"I don’t dance," he says, his voice low, rough, and far too close. His height makes me feel even smaller, his presence overwhelming in the enclosed space of the room. The same room he had put me in last night. The same room where he had stripped me out of my clothes and dressed me in one of his shirts.

Oh God. How did I forget about that?

My anger flares up again. "What the hell did you do to me last night?" The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t care.

His brows furrow, and for a moment, he seems confused, like he's trying to figure out what exactly I’m referring to. I narrow my eyes at him. "My clothes," I snap, clarifying without waiting for him to ask.

Recognition flashes in his gaze, followed by a spark of amusement. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. And he thinks it’s funny.

"What do you want to know?" he asks, his tone maddeningly calm.

"Did you take my clothes off?" I demand, feeling my nerves fray at the edges.

He just looks at me, and then, in that infuriating way of his, he says, "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Did you put me in one of your shirts?"

He doesn’t even bother denying it. His lips curl into a small, wicked smile. "We both know you know the answer to that, too."

How dare he? "You had no right!" I spit out, fury coursing through me, but it only seems to amuse him more.

His smile widens, eyes gleaming with something dark. "I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, it’s nothing I haven’t already seen. Remember?"

That hits me like a slap, and my breath catches in my throat. I don’t know what to do with this—this tension between us, the way his words make my skin prickle with something I don’t want to admit to feeling.

"Get out of my room," I manage to say, my voice barely steady, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s rattling my ribs. I need him to leave. Now.

But instead of acknowledging my demand, he just looks down at my feet and says, "Take off your heels."

What? "Excuse me?" I blink at him, utterly confused.

"I want to check your wound," he says, voice calm but authoritative. "Something tells me you haven’t changed the bandages since I last did."

He’s right, but I won’t admit it. "I’ll take care of it myself. You can go," I say, taking another step back, trying to put some distance between us.

But he doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on me, unwavering. "You know I can take it off for you, right?" he says, his tone dropping into something lower, almost like a warning. His gaze drops from my eyes down to my feet, lingering there.

He’s not backing down, and I know there’s no way out of this. Not with him standing there, watching me like that. With a heavy sigh, I sit down on the edge of the bed and slowly pull off one of my heels.
The second I see the bandage, my stomach sinks. Blood. A lot of it. The entire wrapping is soaked through. Great. I glance up at him, expecting smugness or some triumphant smirk, but instead, his face changes. His expression tightens, a mix of panic, anger, and—concern? No, that can't be right.

Before I can even process his reaction, he drops to his knees in front of me. The shift is so sudden that I flinch. He pulls out a first aid kit from under the bed like he’s done this a thousand times. Of course, he has it ready.

I watch in silence, my anger momentarily fading into confusion as he opens the kit and pulls out fresh bandages and antiseptic. And then his hands are on my foot. Softly he places it on top of the thigh of his raised leg amking me feel all kinds of weird and wrong. His movements are precise, methodical, almost gentle as he unwraps the old, bloodied bandage from my foot. The sting of the cold air hitting the raw wound makes me hiss, but I bite my lip to keep from making any more noise. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Just like I won't ever tell him how good his hands feel on my foot. On my skin.