Page 111 of Marrying the Savage

“It was not meant as one.”

He shuts the door. The click sounds very final.

We are alone.

My heartbeat changes. I hate that it does.

Damir starts unbuttoning his ruined shirt with one hand, movements precise despite the blood and exhaustion. I stand there for three seconds pretending I’m not watching the slow reveal of his chest.

This fails spectacularly.

He is built like violence given human form. Broad shoulders, hard chest, old scars crossing skin in pale lines. Some are clean, some rougher. One near his ribs looks like a knife wound. Another along his shoulder looks older, almost silver now.

My mouth goes dry.

He glances at me. “Are you staying to stare?”

“No. I’m staying to judge.”

“Of course.”

His fingers catch on one button because of the bandage around his palm.

I step forward automatically. “Move.”

His eyes narrow.

I ignore him and reach for the button. For once, he lets me.

That should feel like victory, but it doesn’t. It feels dangerous.

The fabric is warm from his body. My fingers brush his chest once by accident, and the contact snaps through me like static. His breathing changes, not visibly enough for most people, but I’m starting to understand the small shifts in him.

The monster is not made of stone.

How inconvenient.

I finish the last button and push the shirt open. Then I see the wound.

It’s not as terrible as my imagination made it. A graze along the outside of his upper arm, bloody and raw, ugly enough to make me wince but not deep enough to be fatal.

Still.

Blood is blood.

And his is on his skin, sliding slowly down the muscle of his arm.

I hiss under my breath. “You absolute idiot.”

His brow rises. “I was ambushed.”

“Did you try not being ambushed?”

“I will consider that next time.”

“Don’t make jokes while bleeding.”

“You make jokes constantly.”