The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

She cleared her throat.

“I, ah, I guess I made quite a mess.”

He looked up again.

“My fault. I scared the life out of you.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams?”

She shook her head. “No. I just couldn’t—”

“I couldn’t, either.”

“No wonder. That sofa’s—”

He looked up at her again.

“It didn’t have a thing to do with the sofa.”

His voice was low. Rough. She stared at him. Then, slowly, a soft pink glow suffused her cheeks.

She knew what he was telling her. She was what had kept him awake.

How would he react if she told him it was the same for her?

Her heart gave an unsteady bump. Their eyes met and held. Then he rose quickly to his feet.

“Almost finished.” His tone had become brusque. “Let me just dry that cut and put a bandage on it.”

“It doesn’t need a bandage.”

“It does. Are they in the medicine cabinet?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

There was no point in arguing with him. By now, she knew that.

Her knight was a determined man. It was, she had to admit, an admirable quality, especially when all that determination was

devoted to taking care of her.

Nobody had ever done that before.

Well, except, sometimes, for David—but that wasn’t the same thing at all.

Caleb made her feel … protected. More than that. He made her feel cherished, which was a silly word to use because he was a veritable stranger.

And yet, that was how she felt with him.

She watched as he took a towel from the rack, took the box of bandages from the cabinet, opened one, then squatted in front of her again.

His touch was gentle. Everything about him was gentle. It surprised her, considering his size, considering the way he’d dealt with her attacker and the pair of animals in the entry hall a couple of hours ago.

And he was intensely focused. On her foot, on the inconsequential wound.

Was he always that way?