He doesn’t look too perfect right now.
No, he’s all too real. Impossible to keep the mental fence I have around Eros as dangerous playboy when he’s peeling off his shirt and revealing a body carved by the gods. The exhaustion on his face only makes him more attractive, which I might find horribly unfair later, but right now I can’t find enough oxygen in this room to breathe.
Panic. That’s what I’m feeling. Pure panic. It’s not attraction. It can’t be. Not to him. “You’re stripping.”
Beneath the white fabric, I can see that someone—likely Eros himself—has slapped a scattering of bandages across his chest. He gives me a charming smile that’s only slightly strained around the edges. “I was under the impression you wanted me out of my clothes.”
“Pass.” I blurt the word out, my hard-won public persona nowhere in evidence.
“Everyone else does.”
Weirdly enough, his arrogance calms me. I take a breath, and then another, and give him the look that comment deserves. Banter. I can do banter. I’ve been trading artful insults with people like Eros for my entire adult life. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Or are you bragging? Please be clear so I can adjust my reaction accordingly.”
He bursts out laughing. “Clever.”
“I try.” I frown. “I thought your leg is injured.”
“It’s just a bruise.” If anything, his charming smile ramps up a few notches. “Trying to get me out of my pants, too?”
If him being shirtless is enough to cause this uncomfortable reaction, I most certainly don’t want him to lose any more items of clothing. I might combust, and if the embarrassment doesn’t kill me on the spot, it will hand Eros a weapon to use against me. “Absolutely not.”
He finishes shrugging out of his shirt and gives a rough exhale. “That’s a shame.”
“I’m sure you’ll live.” I set the kit on the table and eye his chest. Some of the bandages have already come loose, and there are red smears where the blood made contact with his shirt. What happened to him? Did he get into a fight with a rosebush? “These need to be redone.”
“Go for it.” He leans back and closes his eyes.
I’m about to make a sharp comment about him having me do all the work, but the words die in my throat when I peel back the bandage to find… “Eros, this is a lot of blood.” I can’t tell how serious the wounds are with the mess between the blood and bandages, but some of them are still bleeding.
“You should see the other guy,” he says without opening his eyes. Confirming what I already suspected.
Is the other guy still alive? No need to ask that question. The fact that he’s here at all means he was successful in whatever his task had been. I finish removing the bandages and sit back, examining his chest. There are at least a dozen cuts. “I’m going to need to clean this or the new bandages won’t hold.”
He waves a hand. Permission.
I don’t allow myself to think as I rise and dig around beneath the sink until I find a basket of clean washcloths. I wet two of them and bring the dry ones over to try to mop up the worst of the mess. It takes several long minutes to clean it away.
Which is right around the time I realize I’m essentially giving Eros Ambrosia a sponge bath.
I sit back abruptly. “Eros, some of these might need stitches.” They don’t look nearly as bad as they did before I cleaned him up, but I’m not a doctor. Surely he has one on staff like every other household of the Thirteen. I don’t understand why he didn’t call that person instead of trying to show up for this blasted party.
“It’s fine. It’ll hold until the end of the night.”
I frown down at him. “You can’t be serious. You’re prioritizing attending a party, rather than finding a doctor and getting the medical attention you might require.”
“You know better than anyone why I need to.” At that, he finally opens his eyes. They seem even bluer than before, and a strange look passes through them. It must be pain, because there’s no way that Eros Ambrosia, son of Aphrodite, is looking at me with desire.
Despite myself, my gaze flicks to his mouth. He’s got a very nice mouth, lips curved and sensual. It’s really a shame he’s a dangerous murderer.
To distract myself from such foolhardy thoughts, I stand and move to the sink. It feels remarkably like running away, but I’m just washing the man’s blood from my hands. I glance at the mirror and stop short. He’s staring at me with the strangest expression on his face. It’s not the desire I’ve already convinced myself I imagined. No, Eros is looking at me like he’s never seen me before, like maybe I’ve acted against his expectations.