Chapter 53

**G R A C E**

The room feels too quiet. Too... heavy. Like every sound is getting swallowed by the air between us. I try to focus on the ceiling, the sheets, anything except him. But I can’t. Not when his hands are on my foot, his fingers so gentle that it makes no sense. His hands shouldn't be capable of this kind of... softness. The roughness in his palms contradicts every motion, like he's holding back all the damage they’re capable of doing.
He presses my foot against his thigh. Why is he even doing this? Like he cares. Like he’s got some kind of right to touch me this way. His fingers move over the bandaging, the pressure light, almost soothing, as he wipes away the dried blood and clots from the cut. I feel the cold sting of the medicine, but all I can think about is the weird tenderness in his touch.

I catch myself staring at him, watching the way his eyes are fixed on my leg. And suddenly, I remember—last night. The hazy memory of him, probably sitting right there at the foot of the bed, doing this same thing when I was out cold. He was there, wasn’t he? Just like this, tending to me. With all that care and... affection? No. It’s all a lie. A game. A sick, twisted act he’s putting on, and I can’t let myself fall for it. Not again. I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it.

He’s not fixing my leg; he’s trying to fix me. Trying to make me forget all the other things he’s done. And I’m not falling for it. I won’t. I—

The second he’s done wrapping up my leg, I yank it away. Or... I try to. But he doesn’t let go. His grip tightens, just a little, and then suddenly, he’s standing. He pulls my leg along with him, stretching it across the bed until it’s draped over his lap. He sits down at the edge, still holding my foot, and now... now it feels too intimate. Too much. We’re sitting across from each other, both at opposite ends of the bed, but somehow, we’re closer than we’ve ever been. My back hits the headboard, and I try to breathe, but it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

His hand... it’s still on my leg. Running over the bandages again, softly, almost absently, like he’s thinking about something else. And I hate that my skin is reacting, that my breath catches. I have to grip the sheets—dig my nails into the fabric—just to stop myself from... doing something. Something I’ll regret.

His fingers move lower. They slip down past the bandage, brushing over my bare ankle. And I freeze. He has no business touching me like that. None. But somehow, it feels like this isn’t the first time. Like his hands have been here before, and I... I just don’t remember.

His fingers move higher, and I want to twist away, to yank my leg free, but he’s got it in his grip, and I can’t. My heart’s pounding. His hand is pushing the hem of my dress up, just a little, just enough to make me panic. His thumb brushes over my skin, up my calf, slow, deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Why’d you wear this dress?” he asks, casually. Like we’re discussing the weather. His voice is calm, too calm, and it messes with my head.

I blink at him, wild. Why does he care about the dress? My heart’s racing too fast for this conversation.

“Why do you care?” I spit back, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. But I’m scared. Confused. I don’t know what game he’s playing, and I hate it.

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips like I’ve given him the wrong answer. And his hand keeps moving. Further up my leg. It’s at my knee now, pushing the fabric of my dress with it. He’s getting too close. Way too close.

“Who helped you button the back?” he asks next, like this is a normal, everyday question. Like he’s not halfway up my thigh with his hand.

I swallow. Hard. “Lizzie,” I mumble. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Lizzie helped me. I say it fast, too fast, hoping it’ll end the conversation.

His smile widens. He’s pleased with my answer, and for some reason, that terrifies me. His fingers press into my skin, sliding the hem of my dress higher, revealing my knees. And now his hand is wandering into dangerous territory. His thumb grazes the edge of my lower thigh, and I swear I hear him exhale, heavy, before he speaks again.

“And who’s going to help you unbutton it?” His voice is low, too low, and the words—God, the words—are anything but innocent. He knows it, and I know it. We both do.

I narrow my eyes at him, warning him to stop. To knock it off. But there’s a look in his eyes... a wild, amused look, like he’s having too much fun to stop.

I yank my leg back, using every bit of strength I have, and he finally lets go. I pull my feet under me, tucking them safely away from his reach, my heart thudding so loudly I swear he can hear it.

“I’ll tear it off myself if I have to,” I snap, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. “I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

I add the last bit with a mocking smile, trying to get control of the situation. Trying to push him back.

“It was,” he says, his voice sharp. And I freeze.

That wasn’t the answer I expected. I blink, hesitating. I want to look away, but his eyes—they’ve got me locked in place.

I lick my lips, trying to find something, anything to say. “Well... then I’ll sleep in it if I have to.”

It’s a lame response. Not clever, not strong, but it’s the best I can come up with. And then... something shifts in his eyes. The amusement fades, replaced by something darker. Something hungrier.

The look he gives me—it makes my skin crawl, but at the same time... I can’t look away.

“You don’t have to,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, the sound of it sending a shiver down my spine.

Every hair on my body stands on end, and I know, in that moment, I’m in trouble.