stumble backward, nearly tripping again.
“I’m so sorry! I’ll just… I’ll wait outside!”
I practically run from the bathroom, cheeks blazing, heart thundering so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t burst from my chest. In the main room, I press my back against the wall and try to remember how to breathe.
What the hell is happening to me?
I’m a trained warrior. I’ve killed enemies without flinching. I’ve stood beside the Queen and never wavered. But five seconds in that bathroom, and I turn into a blushing, stammering mess?
The image is seared into my mind. His shoulders. The defined muscles of his stomach. How his damp skin gleamed like bronze in the light filtering through the window. The scars that marked him—proof of battles fought and survived.
And… other things. Things I definitely shou
