Zoe sat on the edge of the sprawling leather sofa. The leather was cool against her skin, slippery. She tucked one leg under her and extended the injured one tentatively.
Her ankle was swollen, a puffy blue-and-purple lump that looked angry against her pale skin.
She reached for the tube of anti-inflammatory gel from the kit. "Really, I've got it."
Julian ignored her. He walked around the coffee table and dropped to one knee in front of her.
The sight of him kneeling-this tall, imposing man lowering himself at her feet-made the air in the room grow thin.
"Stop moving," he commanded softly.
His hand encircled her ankle.
Zoe gasped. His palm was warm, dry, and rough. The contrast against her cold skin sent a jolt of electricity straight up her spine. His fingers were strong, large enough to wrap completely around her delicate joint.
He squeezed gently, testing the injury.
"Does this hurt?"
"A little," she breathed.
He uncapped the gel. He squeezed a dollop onto his fingers and began to massage it into her skin.
His touch was surprisingly gentle. For a man known for his sharp tongue and cold demeanor, his hands were careful, almost reverent. He worked the gel into the swelling with slow, circular motions.
Zoe stared at the top of his head. His hair was dark, thick. She had an insane urge to reach out and touch it. She watched his eyelashes-long, black-lower as he focused entirely on her foot.
"You have cold feet," he murmured, not looking up.
"Circulation issues," she whispered. "Anxiety."
He glanced up then. His eyes locked with hers. For a second, his hand stilled on her ankle. The intensity of his gaze pinned her to the sofa. There was something in those eyes-a hunger, or maybe a question-that terrified and thrilled her.
He finished wrapping her ankle in an ACE bandage, his movements efficient. "Keep it elevated."
He stood up abruptly, breaking the spell. "I'll be right back."
He disappeared into the kitchen. Zoe let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her heart was racing, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. What is wrong with me? This is Julian. Liam's brother.
Julian returned a few minutes later holding a steaming mug.
He set it down on the coaster in front of her.
The smell hit her instantly. Sharp, spicy ginger. Sweet honey.
Zoe stared at the mug. "Is this... ginger tea?"
"Drink it. It'll warm you up."
"How did you know?" Zoe asked, her voice trembling. "This is... this is what I drink when I'm sick. Or panicked. It's my comfort drink."
Julian turned away, picking up his laptop from the side table. He didn't look at her. "My housekeeper swears by it for shock," he said indifferently, not meeting her gaze. "Just drink it."
Zoe took a sip. It was perfect. The burn of the ginger settled her stomach immediately.
"Thank you," she said.
"Get some sleep," Julian said, sitting in an armchair across the room and opening his laptop. The blue light illuminated his face, turning him back into a statue of indifference. "I have work to do."
Zoe limped back to the guest room. She crawled into the bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin.
Outside, the wind screamed.
She closed her eyes, and exhaustion pulled her under.
The dream started in the Sterling estate garden. It was summer. Ten years ago.
Zoe was twelve. She was standing behind a hedge, clutching a box of band-aids.
In the clearing, three boys were pushing another boy into the mud. The boy on the ground was Julian. He was scrawny then, all elbows and knees.
Liam was laughing. He was fifteen, golden and cruel. "Look at the bastard," Liam jeered. "Mom says you shouldn't even be allowed in the main house."
Julian didn't cry. He just glared at them, his eyes burning with a hatred that was too big for his child's body.
Zoe wanted to step out. She wanted to help. She had the band-aids. She wanted to wipe the mud off his face.
But Liam looked at her. He smiled, that dazzling, charming smile. "Come on, Zoe. Let's go swimming."
And in the dream, just like in real life, Zoe froze. She turned her back on Julian. She followed Liam.
Before she left, she looked back. Julian was watching her. He wasn't looking at the boys beating him. He was looking at her. And the betrayal in his eyes was a physical weight that crushed her chest.
Zoe woke up with a gasp.
Her heart was pounding. Her sheets were damp with sweat.
Sunlight was streaming through the cracks in the blinds. The storm had passed.
She sat up, rubbing her face. The guilt from the dream lingered, a bitter taste in her mouth.
She was thirsty.
She swung her legs out of bed. Her ankle felt stiff, but better. She walked out into the living room.
The smell of coffee and bacon assaulted her senses.
Julian was in the kitchen.
He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt that clung to his back muscles as he moved. He was flipping eggs in a pan.
The domesticity of the scene was jarring. This dark, dangerous man was... making breakfast?
"You're up," Julian said, sensing her presence without turning around. "Hungry?"
Zoe walked to the island. "You cook?"
"Survival skill," he said. He plated the eggs and slid a plate toward her. There was toast, perfectly browned, and sliced strawberries.
"Sit," he ordered.
Zoe sat on the barstool. She picked up a fork.
"This looks amazing," she said.
"Eat."
She took a bite. It was delicious.
Just as she was starting to relax, just as the nightmare was fading in the light of this strange, quiet morning, a vibration buzzed against the marble counter.
Zoe's phone.
She looked at the screen.
Liam Sterling.
The name flashed like a warning sign.
Zoe's hand froze mid-air, the fork hovering near her mouth. The peace of the morning shattered like glass.
