Page 11 of Grim

She stripped off her gloves, tossed them into the biohazard bin, and sanitized her hands in one smooth, practiced motion. Fresh gloves snapped into place as she turned—right into Grim.

Her fingers brushed his wrist. Just a touch. Barely anything.

But Grim’s breath stuttered. His entire body went still.

Her gaze flicked up, eyes locking on his. “You’re bleeding,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “What?”

She nodded toward his forearm. Blood smeared his skin where the glass had sliced him earlier. He hadn’t even felt it.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not.” Her tone didn’t change, still calm and still steady. “You need stitches.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t flinch at the edge in his voice. “And I said you’re bleeding.”

She reached for his arm again, slower this time, giving him room to pull away. He didn’t.

Her fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, warm and sure. The contact sent a strange jolt through him, like someone had plugged him into a live wire and told him to hold still.

His breath caught.

He stared at her mouth.

Why the hell was he staring at her mouth?

He didn’t have room for this. Not for softness. Not for wanting anything that wasn’t survival. Whatever pulled him toward her wasn’t desire. It was instinct. That’s what he told himself.

She turned slightly, reaching for a saline wipe with her free hand. The movement brought her closer, the faint scent of soap and something sweet, vanilla maybe, curling around him.

“Just let me clean it,” she murmured.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She dabbed at the blood, careful and precise. The sting barely registered. All he could feel was the warmth of her fingers on his skin.

She glanced toward the clipboard at the foot of the bed, eyes flicking over the top line.

Patient delivered by: Maddox Hale.

Her gaze returned to his face.

“Maddox,” she said softly.

The name hit him like a punch.

He hadn’t heard it spoken like that in years. Not by someone who wasn’t angry. Not by someone who wasn’t leaving. His jaw clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

Her eyes flicked to the patch on his cut.

GRIM — Sergeant-at-Arms.

“Should I call you Grim instead?” she asked. The way she said it, curious not mocking, made something twist in his chest.

“No,” he said, too fast.