Chapter 7

"I need help in the bath."

She stopped mid-step, gripping the towel she had just folded. Surely, she misheard.

Slowly, she turned to face him. "What?"

His green eyes were steady, calm, as if he had just asked her to pass the salt and not something that sent alarm bells ringing in her skull.

"I need help," he repeated, voice smooth, even. "I can't reach my back."

Her throat went dry.

"You've never asked for help before," she said carefully, because it was true.

"I usually manage," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "But it's been bothering me lately. My back—it's itchy. I need you to scrub it. Only my back."

Only his back.

Her stomach twisted. Her mind screamed. Say no. Find an excuse. This is a trap.

But—

This was her job, wasn't it?

She was his caretaker.

Helping him with things like this was part of her responsibility.

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay steady.

"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "Only your back."

His lips twitched—almost a smirk, almost not—as he nodded.

"Only my back," he echoed.

And as he turned his chair toward the en-suite bathroom, leading the way, she could feel it.

The trap was already closing.

The moment she stepped into the bathroom, she knew she had made a mistake.

The space smelled like him—a mix of expensive cologne, fresh water, and something undeniably masculine. The heat from the steam clung to her skin, making everything feel too intimate.

And there he was.

Sitting in the bathing chair, completely naked.

Her breath hitched, her hands gripping the washcloth so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She should have expected this. He was in the bath, after all. But somehow, her brain hadn't fully processed it.

Her gaze snapped to his face, heat rushing to hers.

"Why are you naked?" she blurted before she could stop herself.

His brows lifted slightly, amused, as if she had asked something ridiculous.

"You're a nurse, right?" His voice was smooth, unreadable. "You've washed hundreds of patients before."

True.

She had.

She had seen bodies before—helped in hospitals, cleaned wounds, assisted with personal care.

But none of those patients had ever been him.

None had been a man with broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a body that still exuded raw power, even as he sat there, partially submerged.

None had been a man whose skin she had touched night after night, whose body she had already used in ways he didn't even know.

And none of them had had a thick, hard erection standing at full attention between their legs.

Her breath stopped in her throat.

Oh.

Oh.

Her brain short-circuited, her gaze locking onto it before she could stop herself.

She should look away.

She should leave the room.

She should say something, anything.

But she did none of those things.

She just stood there, gripping the towel like it was a lifeline, her mind torn between shouting sexual harassment or reaching out to touch it.

She didn't do either.

Didn't mention it.

Didn't even let her face betray the absolute hurricane of thoughts running through her head.

Instead, she did what she came here to do.

She grabbed the washcloth, moved behind him, and started scrubbing his back—her hands moving in tight, practical strokes, her eyes very much not on his back.

She was scared to know why it was like that.

Scared to ask.

Scared to even acknowledge the truth settling in the air between them.

For a moment, the only sound was the water sloshing around him, the quiet scrape of fabric against skin.

Then, after a painfully long silence, he spoke.

"Oh," he said quietly, and she hated—hated—how different his voice sounded. Almost… embarrassed.

"Sorry."

She froze.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him grab a towel, casually draping it over himself.

"It must have… fallen down," he muttered, voice clipped, as if trying to explain it away.

Right.

Because he couldn't feel it.

Of course.

He probably hadn't even noticed.

She swallowed, hard, forcing a laugh that sounded all wrong. "Yeah, that happens."

A pause.

Then, in a voice so low she almost didn't hear it, he whispered,

"The medicine I take… has this effect."

Her stomach tightened.

His voice was almost ashamed.

"Forget it."

She should have.

She should forget everything about this.

But she knew—deep down, in the pit of her stomach—

This moment would be burned into her memory forever.

She barely made it through the bath.

She barely made it through dinner after that, pretending like nothing happened.

But the second she stepped into her room, the second she locked the door behind her and turned on the shower, it all came crashing down.

Her body was on fire, trembling with something she had tried so hard to bury.

But she couldn't—not this time.

The image of him, naked in the bath, muscles slick with water, his voice low and ashamed as he whispered about the medicine's effect—

It was too much.

She tried to ignore the pulse between her thighs as the warm water hit her skin.

Tried to pretend her hands weren't moving lower on their own.

But the second her fingers slipped between her legs, she was gone.

She barely had to touch herself, barely had to do anything before the pleasure came rushing forward, tearing through her like she had been waiting for this moment all day.

Her head tipped back against the tiles, a groan slipping past her lips as her hips bucked into her own touch.

It was pathetic—how fast she unraveled, how easy it was for her body to betray her.

Her fingers worked faster, thighs clenching, her breath turning ragged as the image of him flashed behind her eyes—

His broad chest, the ridges of his abs, the towel he draped over himself too late—

The thing she had seen before he covered it.

The thing she had ridden in secret, grinding down on him while he slept, coming apart like a desperate, filthy woman.

The thought sent her over the edge.

Her body shook, pleasure crashing down hard and merciless, her legs weak, her groan muffled against her palm as she tried—failed—to stay silent.

And when it was over, when the waves of bliss faded into something else, she looked down at her hands—

Soaked. Covered in her own shame.

A disgusted groan left her throat, her other hand gripping her forehead.

This is too much.

She couldn't live like this.

She needed distraction.

She needed space.

She needed to get away from him.

She needed space.

She needed distance from him, from the dangerous pull he had on her body, on her mind.

So, she asked for a day off.

Just one.

To breathe. To unwind. To reset herself into the changed woman she swore she was.

But instead of just nodding like he usually did, he tilted his head, watching her carefully.

"Why?"

She forced a laugh, casual, calm. "Just want to unwind a bit."

His green eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Then, to her absolute horror, he said, "I'll come with you."

Her stomach dropped.

"What?" she blurted out, heart hammering.

"You want to unwind. I could use that, too," he said simply, like he wasn't throwing her into a nightmare of her own making.

"I—" She searched for an excuse, any excuse, but nothing came.

And just like that, her one escape had been ruined.

The Park

The day was warm, the sun high, the sound of birds and laughter filling the air.

It was supposed to be relaxing.

Instead, she was in hell.

Because he was right next to her, in his sleek black wheelchair, effortlessly commanding attention even in a place as simple as a park.

Women stared as they passed—of course they did.

Because despite everything, despite the chair, despite the quiet, unreadable exterior, he was still the most striking man in the area.

Broad-shouldered, well-dressed, sharp green eyes that made people stop and look.

And she was next to him.

Suffering.

She had planned to clear her mind today.

Instead, she was hyper-aware of him, of how close they were as they moved through the park, of the way he occasionally turned his head toward her when she spoke.

And worst of all—

She couldn't stop thinking about last night.

Couldn't stop hearing the quiet rasp of his voice in the bath, the shame in his tone as he whispered, The medicine I take… has this effect.

She swallowed, trying to act normal, as if she wasn't completely unraveling beside him.

"You're quiet," he noted suddenly, his voice smooth, deep.

She forced a smile, gripping her hands together. "Just… thinking."

"Hmm."

And then—casually, too casually—

"Is unwinding not working?"

Her breath hitched.

She snapped her head to him, searching his face—was that a joke? A tease?

But his expression was unreadable. Calm. Controlled.

Like he wasn't wrecking her without even trying.

She let out a nervous laugh, shaking her head. "No, it's— It's great. Really."

A pause.

Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Good."

And somehow, that simple word sent shivers down her spine.