Faith sat at the kitchen island, picking at her scrambled eggs. They were perfect-fluffy, buttery, seasoned with chives. It was annoying how good he was at everything.
Earl was standing by the sink, rinsing a pan. As he moved, Faith noticed something.
On his right thigh, just below the hem of his shorts, a white bandage was peeling at the corner. A dark stain of red was seeping through.
The shrapnel wound. The landing from the pull-up bar had torn something.
"Your leg," Faith said, her doctor instinct overriding her awkwardness. She put down her fork and stood up. "You're bleeding. You pushed it too hard with the workout."
She walked toward him, reaching out. "Let me see. I need to change the dressing."
Earl stiffened. He sidestepped her hand, turning his body away.
"It's fine," he said, his voice tight. "Just a scratch."
Faith froze, her hand suspended in mid-air. "Earl, I'm a doctor. I stitched that wound myself. If it gets infected..."
"I have a medical officer," Earl said, grabbing a kitchen towel and pressing it against his leg. "I don't need you to do it."
"A medical officer?" Faith scoffed. "You mean a private doctor on payroll? Why wait? I'm right here."
"I said no."
He turned to face her. His expression was closed off, a wall of stone. But beneath the stone, Faith saw a flicker of something else. Shame? He looked down at his leg, at the ugly, mangled flesh that the war had left behind.
"It's... messy," Earl muttered, his voice losing its edge. "You don't need to see it in the light of day. It's not... aesthetic."
Faith felt a sting of rejection turn into a pang of sympathy. He wasn't rejecting her help; he was hiding his damage. "Earl," she said softly. "I've seen inside your chest cavity. A bleeding stitch isn't going to scare me off."
She stepped closer, invading his space until her back hit the counter. She reached out and gently moved the towel away from his hand.
"Let me fix it," she whispered. "Please."
Earl hesitated. The muscles in his jaw worked. Finally, he let out a long sigh and dropped his hand.
"Fine," he gritted out. "But be quick."
Faith grabbed the first aid kit from the counter-another item Alfred had likely delivered. She knelt before him, her fingers nimble and professional as she cleaned the wound and applied a fresh butterfly closure. The intimacy of it was suffocating. Her face was inches from his bare thigh. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the musk of his skin.
When she finished, she looked up. Earl was watching her, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
He reached out and tilted her chin up with his finger.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
It was chaste. Dry. But it burned like a brand.
"Eat," he whispered against her skin. "Then we go."
Twenty minutes later, they were in the underground garage.
Earl walked toward the Escalade, but Faith's eyes were drawn to the corner. Under a dust sheet, the unmistakable silhouette of a low-slung sports car crouched.
"Is that a..."
"Don't ask," Earl said, opening the passenger door of the truck for her. "It's not for today."
They drove out into the morning traffic. The city was grey and busy. Earl drove with one hand, the other resting on the gear shift.
He pulled over two blocks away from St. Luke's Hospital.
"Why here?" Faith asked, unbuckling her seatbelt.
"Optics," Earl said. "You don't want to be seen getting out of a tank like this. Not yet. And I need to make a call."
"I'll be fast," Faith said. "Just grabbing the... personal items from my locker. Resigning. Then I'm out." She touched the pocket of her jeans, checking for the small RFID blocking pouch she'd need for the hardware key.
"Twenty minutes," Earl repeated. "Alfred is in the lobby. If you aren't out, he's coming in to get you."
Faith nodded. She needed to get that key. It was the only leverage she had left if this marriage turned into a prison.
"Okay."
Faith opened the door. She paused. "Earl?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to rip any more stitches."
She hopped out and slammed the door.
Earl watched her walk away until her grey coat disappeared into the crowd.
As soon as she was gone, he pulled his phone out.
"Alfred. Bring the Phantom around to the alley. I need to change."
Ten minutes later, in a quiet alleyway, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up behind the Escalade.
Earl got out. He winced as his leg took his weight, but he ignored it. He opened the back door of the Rolls.
Hanging there was a charcoal grey Tom Ford suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie.
He stripped off the athletic shorts and t-shirt right there in the car. He pulled on the suit. It was armor. It transformed him.
When he stepped out, the rough, sweaty ex-soldier was gone. In his place stood Earl Hampton, CEO, billionaire, and predator.
Alfred handed him a tablet. "Mr. Sterling is waiting at HQ. He's... displeased."
Earl buttoned his jacket. He checked his reflection in the tinted window. Cold. Perfect.
"Let him be displeased," Earl said. He climbed into the back of the Phantom. "Drive. I have a wedding to defend."
