Amara.
He reached for my face, but before his fingers could touch my skin, I pulled away.
“I have to go,” I said, though my voice betrayed me, thin and unconvincing, trembling with everything I was trying to deny.
My eyes dropped to his hand.
Blood streaked across his knuckles.
Then I saw it — a sharp metal ornament on the edge of the table, tipped on its side, smeared red where his hand had hit it when I pulled away.
I gasped in shock as my gaze traveled from his face to his bloodied hand.
"You are hurt," I say, trying to take my mind off the burning desire beneath my skin.
“Are you really concerned about my pain, or are you trying to take my mind off f*****g you tonight?”
This had my eyes widening. I could feel my face slowly turning red as I continued to try to move away, but
