Milk & Gunpowder

Chapter Nine

Cynrim came back into the room carrying fresh gauze, gloves, antiseptic, and a clean set of towels. She'd finally gotten a moment to wash her hands, but her heart hadn't slowed. Not once.

He needed a dressing change. He needed rest. But most of all,he needed to get cleaned up. The scent of blood clung to the air, and she knew if he stayed like this, infection would be the next battle they had to fight.

"You should try to wash up," she said gently. "The bathroom's small, but it's clean. I'll help."

Rover didn't argue. He simply nodded once and tried to rise.

Cynrim rushed to his side, looping an arm around his waist, the moment she slid beneath his arm to support him, she realized just how massive he was like her entire side disappeared under his weight. He smelled of iron and leather, of danger, but there was something else too, something warm beneath the blood and bruises.

Rover said nothing, though she could feel the deep vibrations of a low chuckle beneath her fingers. He was amused. But not cruelly.

In the narrow hallway, she felt the weight of his body shift just enough to avoid pressing against her too hard. He was being careful,deliberate. That alone made her glance up at him.

Their eyes met. Only for a breath.

She opened the bathroom door and helped him inside. The mirror reflected a bruised, blood-specked man who looked like he belonged on the cover of some war-stained legend. She tried not to stare.

But God help her... she did.

His body was the kind that looked built for violence, broad chest dusted with dark hair, deep scars cutting across sun-warmed skin, defined abs tight even when he breathed slowly. Yet there was a strange beauty in it. A quiet strength. Her gaze lingered too long at his abdomen, then up, along the line of his throat, where a faint pulse ticked under his skin.

She cleared her throat and looked away. "I'll help clean the wounds. Just the surface, okay?"

Rover nodded. Again, quiet.

[Rover's POV]

He didn't remember the last time someone touched him without fear or intention.

Her hands were soft, even through the gloves. And when she reached for a clean towel, her sleeve slipped down just a little, revealing the delicate curve of her shoulder, the smooth slope of her chest. His gaze dipped. He didn't mean to, but it happened.

Her figure wasn't like the women thrown at him plastic smiles, hollow eyes, the same mold on repeat. Cynrim was real. Her curves were soft, inviting. Her waist tucked in like a secret he wasn't allowed to know, and when she leaned closer to tend to a scrape on his side, he caught the faint scent of lavender and antiseptic.

It hit him low. Sharp. Dangerous.

She was beautiful. Not in the way that screamed for attention but in the way that silenced every violent thing inside him.

And it terrified him.

He clenched his fists to resist reaching for her, because something told him if he touched her with these bloodstained hands, she'd break. Or worse... he would.

[Back to Cynrim's POV]

Cynrim focused on cleaning the dried blood. She worked in silence, except for the steady sound of her breath and the low rasp of his. But every time her fingers brushed his skin, something flickered beneath it. Like a shiver. Like restraint.

"You okay?" she whispered.

He didn't answer right away.

Then: "You're the first person who's ever done this for me."

Her heart skipped. "Done what?"

He looked straight at her then. "Stayed."

Her throat tightened.

And she stayed quiet, afraid that if she spoke, she'd ruin the weight of that word. Stayed.

Because she had.

And she didn't plan on going anywhere.