Chapter 99 Running the Bathwater
The delicate scent of her hair wafted into his senses, a gentle perfume that mingled with his breath. The soft whispers of her exhalations grazed his hand, trailing into an uncharted abyss, sparking an unseen fire.
Damian swallowed hard, his Adam's apple dancing a nervous jig.
With concentrated care, Ashley applied the salve to his raw wound, her touch feather-light, fearing to cause him further pain. "Does it still hurt? Like this?"
His gaze wandered from the tendrils of hair cascading by her ear to the haphazardly stacked boxes in the living room. "A deep tissue injury. Of course, it hurts. Letting her go was a grave error."
Is he still brooding over that?
Such a stubborn man!
Dipping the cotton swab into the alcohol once more, the now sodden tip grazed his hand. "Don't shout; it'll be over soon."
In that instant, Damian felt as if he had lost half his life. "Ashley! Are you exacting revenge?"
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Sorry, I did my best. Perhaps you should give it a try. Aren't you rather adept with your left hand? Here's the kit."
A surge of anger flooded Damian as he clenched his left hand. Had it been Hayden or Christian before him, they would have been nursing a broken nose by now. "Can you just bandage it already?"
Ashley ripped open a Band-Aid, gauged its size, and realized it was woefully inadequate—they would need at least half a dozen. "Perhaps we should consider the hospital? We don't have any gauze here, and Band-Aids are for minor injuries. That's a severe wound you have; it could easily become infected, and if you're not careful, you might even contract tetanus, which is a whole other nightmare."
In truth, Ashley regretted not preventing their older sister from leaving; she should have held her accountable. Forget the car; Damian's hand alone was enough to put their sister behind bars for a considerable time.
With each word, Damian's expression darkened. He was convinced Ashley harbored ill-will towards him, even bringing up remote possibilities like tetanus. "That would be your fault, too, for shielding the perpetrator."
Ashley found it incredibly taxing to reason with Damian. He was steadfast in his beliefs and wouldn't entertain any other perspectives. "Damian, can we focus on the immediate problem? The issue is we can't adequately dress your wound. Can we concentrate on that, please?"
Damian furrowed his brow, eyeing his grotesquely injured hand. He tried a few clenched movements—it ached, but the primary concern was the risk of infection if it got wet. "I have some bandages at my place. You can fetch them."
After discarding the cotton swab and sealing the alcohol bottle, Ashley refused, "The owner isn't home, and I won't risk it. If something goes missing, I won't be able to explain it. I've finished cleaning up here. Go home and bandage it yourself. It shouldn't be too challenging, especially for someone like you, 'Mr. Jack-of-all-trades Damian.'"
Exposed to the air, Damian's wound seemed to reflect the bitterness of his expression. "Are you really going to argue with me now? You've got two choices: accompany me, or I'll give you the passcode."
Ashley despised Damian's penchant for issuing ultimatums! But then she glanced at the bleeding wound again and felt a pang of sympathy. Gritting her teeth and silently cursing her soft heart, she grumbled, "I'll go with you."
She intended to leave as soon as she had tended to his wound, eager to minimize their time together.
Damian's apartment occupied the top floor of a mid-block building, unobstructed by any surrounding structures. The open windows offered no fear of prying eyes, and both the view and the living experience were unparalleled.
The two-story residence was his alone—thousands of square feet on each level. Ashley suspected he had even played basketball in the living room.
The space was not only expansive but also tastefully decorated in a Nordic style: cool and crisp, making one feel a drop in temperature upon entering—a perfect sanctuary from the summer heat.
After a brief survey of the apartment's features, Ashley inquired, "Where's the first aid kit?"
Damian sauntered into the living room and sank into the middle of the long, sleek couch. "Upstairs, on the shelf in the storage closet to the right of the bathroom."
A staircase spiraled upwards from the first floor, its ascent accompanied by walls adorned with bookshelves. The books spiraled upwards, creating an illusion of climbing a stairway to the heavens on the spines of countless volumes.
The second floor was a sanctuary of sorts, a bedroom that doubled as a study. Two other rooms with closed doors added to the mystery of the place, their purpose concealed. Ashley found the bathroom and, adjacent to it, a meticulously organized storage area that was as expansive as a thousand square feet.
Living in such an expansive dwelling, she wondered how he managed not to lose his way.
With a first-aid kit in her possession, Ashley did her utmost to clean Damian's bleeding wound. Her struggle was evident as she attempted to wrap it. "I'm not very proficient, so bear with me until you can have it properly dressed at the hospital tomorrow," she said.
Damian remained silent, offering no words of comfort or reassurance.
She pondered for a moment before attempting to wrap the bandage around his hand. Halfway through, she realized her error, looked up with an awkward smile, and bit her lip. "Should I try again?"
Damian, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand in mild exasperation, replied, "Let it be. Given your prowess, I doubt a second attempt would fare any better."
Her lack of skill was glaringly evident as she transformed his sleek, elegant pianist's hand into something resembling a crudely wrapped dumpling.
"You should head to the hospital for a proper dressing before you go to the office tomorrow," she suggested, her concern evident.
The way his hand was wrapped threatened to tarnish his polished image.
With a grimace, Damian lowered his right hand. "Can't cook, can't treat a wound, what can you do besides flap your lips?"
Ashley felt she had done her best, and she was diligent. She wasn't a chef or a doctor. "I'm good for nothing, a total waste. Now that I've finished my task, I won't stick around spoiling Damian's mood."
She rose to her feet, leaving the first-aid kit untidy, ready to leave.
"Come back," Damian called out coolly from behind.
"What for?" she asked.
"There's food in the kitchen. Just heat it in the microwave."
Despite her hunger, Ashley resisted. "I'm not hungry."
"I am," Damian lifted his right hand.
As she prepared the food from the fridge, Ashley found herself questioning her life choices. What kind of spell had Damian cast that made her limbs rebel against her brain whenever she was around him?
She decided to attribute it to sympathy for his injury.
While heating the meal, Ashley said sarcastically, "Damian, you preach against eating frozen food, yet you have leftovers at home. Quite impressive! Leaving you to dine on the remnants of grandeur is quite the plight."
Unable to use chopsticks, Damian picked up a spoon with his left hand. "Which eye of yours sees these as leftovers?"
The gourmet meal had been delivered earlier after Jonathan had invited Sion Howard over. However, before they could enjoy it, Damian received a call from the Moonlight Bar owner saying that Christian had booked it for a private event.
Damian had a gut feeling that something was off, so he brought Joanne Howard over on a whim. Sure enough, they stumbled upon Ashley and Christian deep into a high-stakes game.
Ashley curved her lips sarcastically. "Fine, if you say it's not what it looks like, then it's not."
Are leftovers not stored in the fridge? Yeah, right—who are you fooling?
Damian was so irritated he felt like knocking some sense into her head. Since that wasn't an option, and his mind wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders, he barked, "Eat!"
Keep your mouth shut, speak less, and get less annoyed.
Ashley didn't make a fuss; she just bowed her head and began to eat without exchanging a single word with him.
After ten minutes of scarfing down her meal, she announced, "Well, if there's nothing else, I'm heading back."
As Damian was leisurely savoring his dinner, he said quite naturally, "I'm a bit tied up here; run a bath for me, will you?"
Ashley narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Come on... run a bath with one hand tied up?"
Damian defended his plea with dignified earnestness, "No can do. I can't risk getting my wound infected and coming down with tetanus."
Rolling her eyes toward the opulent crystal chandelier overhead—likely studded with diamonds that hurt her eyes—she conceded, "Alright, I'll draw your bath, Mr. Damian. Your Highness, please wait."
Once the bath was ready and Damian had finished his dinner, he took his sweet time getting upstairs. He found Ashley leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, her expression sour as if invisible thorns were sprouting from her back. "Ashley, what's wrong?"
"Damian, care to explain why your bedroom telescope is pointed directly at my house?"
