Chapter six.

Arya's POV.

I tried not to look at him further and just go to sleep like he had demanded.

I really, really tried. But how could I ignore him when he was pacing furiously around the room, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap? The tension in his shoulders, the way his fists were balled at his sides, and the quiet rage radiating from him... it was impossible to ignore.

Lucas was a storm, and I was trapped in his eye.

"Sit down," I finally spoke, my voice more uncertain than I wanted it to be.

Oh goodness, what am I doing?

He stopped pacing and turned to look at me. Those blue-green eyes bore into mine, filled with something unreadable. Something dark. Dangerous. His lips parted as if to say something, but he hesitated.

"You’re hurt," I continued, forcing my voice to be steadier this time. "Let me clean you up."

For a second, I expected him to scoff, maybe even tell me to mind my business, but instead, he surprised me. With an almost reluctant nod, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

There was no first aid kit in the room, and in my desperation, I did something incredibly stupid.

I pulled off my shirt.

It wasn’t until I caught the sharp intake of breath from Lucas that I realized what I had done. My heart hammered in my chest as I felt the cool air against my skin, my singlet doing little to conceal the curves of my body. Heat crawled up my neck, and I cursed at myself inwardly.

I could have used a towel.

Why the hell didn’t I just use a towel?

Lucas’s eyes were on me. I could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing over every inch of exposed skin. I tried to ignore it, tried to focus on dampening my shirt with the bottled water I found in the bedside drawer, but it was impossible.

His stare was burning through me.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for his arm, lifting it gently. Blood was smeared across his knuckles, dried against his skin, evidence of the fight he had just been in. I swallowed hard as I began wiping the wounds clean, the fabric of my shirt turning red with every stroke.

The room was silent, except for our breaths.

His were deep and steady.

Mine were shallow and uneven.

As I held his hand, pressing gently to clean the cuts, a sensation I couldn’t quite describe crept through my veins, spreading like wildfire. It wasn’t just from touching him... it was from being touched by him.

His free hand moved.

It was so subtle, so slow, that I didn’t even realize it at first. His palm slid over my thigh, resting just above my knee. My entire body went stiff, a shiver shooting up my spine. The warmth of his hand was in stark contrast to the chill that ran through me.

I should have pulled away.

I should have said something.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Instead, I focused on the cut just above his wrist, dabbing at it in a desperate attempt to ignore the growing tension between us. My breathing was shaky, my heart pounding like a war drum.

"You’re good at this," he murmured, his voice a deep rasp.

I bit my lip, my fingers tightening slightly around his hand. "I’ve had practice."

"On who?" he asked, and when I glanced up, I found his gaze locked onto me with a dangerous intensity.

"Does it matter?" I countered, trying to steady my voice.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. "No. It doesn’t."

I turned back to his wound, trying to keep my mind from spiraling. The way he looked at me, the way his fingers absentmindedly stroked my thigh, it was all too much. My body was betraying me, my pulse thrumming with something I refused to name.

"All done," I finally announced, pulling back quickly.

Lucas didn’t move his hand.

He kept it right there, a lazy smirk still playing on his lips. "Thanks."

His thumb brushed against my skin as he said it, and I felt a jolt of something electric shoot straight to my core.

I stood abruptly, turning away before I did something really, really stupid.

"Goodnight, Lucas," I muttered, climbing onto the bed and pulling the blanket over myself as fast as humanly possible.

There was silence for a moment, and then I heard a low chuckle of amusement.

From him, ofcourse.

I squeezed my eyes shut, cursing myself a thousand times over.