Chapter 18 NOT SO MUCH OF A CONNECTION
JASMINE:
The glass hit the floor with a violent crack, and crystals shattered across the floor, scattering in bright, jagged pieces.
Nikolai, already turning, caught the falling frame on instinct. But it was too late. A shard sliced along his forearm.
Blood streaked down his skin, vivid against his white shirt.
A maid outside the door gasped, rushing closer.
“I’m fine,” Nikolai snapped, clamping his hand over the cut.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
“It’s nothing,” he said, but he was already pressing harder, his jaw tight in pain.
I stepped forward. “Let me.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know,” I replied, quieter.
For a beat, he didn’t move, like he was weighing what it cost to let me close.
Then he gave a single, controlled nod.
“Fine,” he said. “There are supplies in the desk drawer.”
I reached for the desk drawer, and he caught my wrist.
“Jasmine.” His voice was low, like a warning.
I looked at his hand around my wrist, then back to his eyes. “If you want control, let me do this.”
Seconds passed, then his grip loosened.
I pulled the drawer open, found the first aid kit, and moved to the small sitting area beside the fireplace. He followed with a measured reluctance, with blood still trailing down his arm.
“Sit,” I repeated.
He did and I knelt in front of him, close enough that my breath warmed his knee through the fabric of his trousers. I forced myself to focus on the kit, on the latch, on the clean snap of its opening, anything but the fact that he was watching my hands.
“Roll up your sleeve,” I said.
His eyes sharpened then softened. Reluctance shone in his gaze before he slowly did as I demanded.
The cut ran jagged along his forearm, shallow in some places, deeper in others. Blood had already started to tack at the edges, darkening where it met the fine hair on his skin.
I took a sterile wipe. “This is going to sting.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
I paused, my gaze staying on his tattooed face. Just what has he experienced? What kind of life has he been living all along? Was he happy the way he was?
The questions ran in my head.
A cough snapped me back to reality. Nikolai’s eyes were fixated on mine.
Heat crept up my face and I coughed, trying to get out of this awkward situation.
“Congratulations, Mr. superman,” I murmured sacarstically, and pressed the wipe to the wound.
His breathing didn’t change. But his eyes did, just slightly, sharpen at the first bite of pain.
My fingers were steadier than I felt. I cleaned along the edges carefully, slow enough not to tear it open further. His skin was warm under my touch. Human in a way that didn’t match a man like him.
A small smear of blood streaked across my thumb, and Nikolai’s gaze dropped to it.
Then it lifted to my face.
“You’re not squeamish,” he said.
“No,” I replied, not looking up. “Are you?”
“I don’t like mess,” he said.
I almost laughed, but it came out as a breath. “Then stop bleeding on your own floors.”
Something like amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone before it could become real.
I reached for the gauze and pressed it to the cut. “Hold this.”
He did, covering my hand with his for a second as he took over.
His palm was broad, firm. The contact wasn’t necessary. He didn’t move away from it either.
When I reached for the bandage roll, his fingers caught the edge of my hand again, briefly, deliberately, as if he wanted to remind me that even on his knees, he could still control the space between us.
“Tell me the truth,” he said quietly.
I stilled. “About what?”
“About him,” Nikolai said.
“David’s not the man I thought he was,” I said. He was only using me to further his career.
His eyes held mine. I tugged the bandage a little tighter than necessary to break our eye contact, and he winced.
That definitely did the trick.
I finished the wrap and secured it, my fingertips lingering for a beat too long against the inside of his wrist where his pulse jumped under my skin.
Nikolai looked down at my hand there, then back at my face.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“With what?” I asked, softer than I meant to.
“With what you make me want to believe,” he said.
My breath caught, annoyingly, and traitorously.
I pulled my hand away, wiping my thumb on a clean cloth, like distance could reset the moment.
At that very moment, Matthew came in. He stared at the both of us, confused like we were doing something we shouldn’t be doing.
Nikolai stood immediately, the old control snapping back into place as if he’d never bled at all.
“Everything okay?” Matthew asked.
Nikolai flexed his bandaged arm once, testing it. “Yeah,” he replied.
“Get some rest, Jasmine,” he said, turning to me, formal again.
I managed a nod, then left for my bedroom, unescorted.
Laying on my bed, I looked down at the faint smear of his blood still staining my fingertips, and one truth unsettled me more than anything else.
David had reached out and begged. Nikolai had bled. And for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely, it was Nikolai’s blood that weirdly still made my heart race.