“Oh . . .” she whispered, “you scared me . . .” and she crouched down to begin picking up the bits of the broken ceramic cup.
Roan scowled and halted at the edge of the kitchen. He saw her hands shaking as she tried to pick up the pieces. One shard had already sliced her finger, red blood oozing out and dripping on the floor. “Stop,” he ordered her.
Lifting her head, Shiloh felt the full impact of his protectiveness in that moment. Her finger smarted because she’d accidentally cut it. “What?”
“Don’t move. And stop trying to pick up the pieces. Let me get a dustpan and broom. You’re barefoot and if you move at all, you’re going to cut the soles of your feet.” Roan turned and walked to the closet on the other side of the door.
Gulping, her sleep torn from her, Shiloh watched the play of muscles in his long, broad back. The man was in incredible condition. When Roan turned around, her gaze absorbed his darkly haired chest, its powerful expanse. Mouth going dry, she followed that thin, dark line of hair down through his rock-hard abs until it disappeared into the waistline of his pajamas. Shiloh remained where she was, sticking her bleeding finger into her mouth. The metallic, salty taste made her wrinkle her nose. She watched as Roan quickly swept around her, placed the shards into the dustpan, and then transferred them to a large wastebasket at the end of the kitchen counter.
“Okay,” he growled, “why don’t you walk out of the kitchen? I need to look at your hand.” Roan dumped the dustpan contents into a nearby trash can and put the items away. Turning, he saw Shiloh had gone over to the sink, running cold water and then soaping down the cut on her finger. She had a mind of her own. Not surprising. Smiling a little to himself, he ambled into the kitchen and moved close enough to where she was washing her hand to inspect the cut.
“Let me take a look at it,” he said, and he held out his sun-darkened hand toward hers.
Shiloh felt the heat of Roan’s powerful body. He was so close her nostrils automatically flared and she inhaled his male scent. Her heart was still tumbling wildly in her chest, adrenaline still surging through her. She turned off the faucet and placed her hand in his wide, callused palm. Roan had beautiful hands. His fingers were long and strong-looking. His nails were blunt cut and clean. Dark hair smattered across the back of it. The moment she made contact with his palm, shocking heat soared through her fingers. Her heart turned mushy as he gently held her hand and then, with his other one, took her index finger and looked at the deep cut across it.
“This is going to need a couple of stitches,” he muttered, looking up, her face six inches from his. Roan wasn’t prepared for the gold dappling in the forest green depths of her eyes. Her pupils, large and black, widened as he gently cradled her hand. Her skin was soft, telling him she didn’t do hard work for a living. Her nails were short and she had a clear polish on them. Artistic, long fingers. As he tried to stop the vision of her fingers trailing down across his chest, Roan’s mouth tightened. “What were you doing up?”
Shiloh saw the intense concentration in his gray eyes as he assessed the cut. It was deep and long. And it stung, still bleeding heavily. “I . . . ummm . . . had a nightmare,” she said, and quickly glanced up expecting to see censure in his eyes. But there was none. Instead, his eyes became dove gray and she saw sympathy . . . maybe tenderness in them. Roan’s hand closed a little more around her hand. It felt so good, so stabilizing. Shiloh felt safe for the first time in a long time. He was so massive against her, all sleek, powerful muscles, a male animal at its finest, her wild imagination told her. She felt his strength, wanting to reach out and slide her fingers through that dusting of black hair across his chest. Her body ached. The man was sensual as hell. She pulled her hand out of his, afraid of herself, not him.
Roan took a step back. He pulled some tissues from a nearby box and wrapped her bleeding finger with them. “And I scared the hell out of you by not announcing myself. That’s why you dropped the cup.”
He missed nothing. Shiloh wasn’t sure she was relieved or alarmed by his intelligence and swiftly cobbling the situation together. Maybe because Roan had been black ops he was used to sizing up a situation and then distilling it into a neat little nutshell. His life probably had depended upon this skill. “Yes, you scared the living bejesus out of me.” She saw a faint curve at one corner of his mouth, his eyes now a darker gray, like a storm was coming, maybe.
“It won’t happen again,” Roan promised her in a low tone. “Keep pressure on that finger and go sit on the couch. I’ll fetch the first aid box.”