Page 33 of His to Protect
I lifted my chopsticks and tried focusing on noodles, but my attention kept drifting sideways.
To Riven's hands.
His hands were steady and sure. Those were the same hands that operated on failing hearts without hesitation. I watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he lifted food to his mouth. He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that drew the eye without any effort at all.
My decidedly non-clinical brain had other observations.
My gaze traveled up to his arms and the way his shirt fit across his shoulders. He’d always looked impressive in his white coat at the hospital but up close he was even more overwhelming.
I forced my focus back to my plate and swallowed a piece of tofu despite my pulse being too loud in my ears.
“Mireya?”
I looked up too quickly. Riven was watching me, those steel-gray eyes narrowed slightly in assessment—the same look he used when evaluating surgical complications.
The way he looked at me made my breathing falter.
“Sorry, what?” I asked.
“I asked if the food tasted okay,” he said.
“Oh. Yes. It tastes good.” I nodded frantically.
“You have barely touched it,” he said pointing towards my plate.
“I'm not very hungry,” I said.
Emma looked at both of us with a smile that told me she was enjoying herself far too much. “The tension in here is so thick right now,” she said.
“Emma,” Riven said in a warning tone.
“What? I'm only pointing out facts,” she said. She stood with her container and lifted it in both hands. “I'm going to eat in my room and watch that show. You two have fun with whateverthis is.”
She walked down the hall before we could protest.
Silence washed through the kitchen. It felt heavy and awkward. I lifted my chopsticks again and stared at the food like it could save me from the moment.
“How are you adjusting?” Riven asked after a pause.
“Fine. Good,” I said too quickly. “The guest room is really comfortable.”
“Good,” he said.
More silence followed. I glanced up and found him still watching me. His eyes traveled over my face, almost like he was memorizing me. Something in that gaze warmed my skin and prickled the back of my neck at the same time.
“Do I have something on my face?” I asked, already bringing my napkin towards my lips.
“No,” he said simply.
“Then why are you staring?” I asked. The question came out more confrontational than intended.
“I'm not staring,” he shrugged and leaned back into his chair. He made no effort to look away.
“You’re definitely staring,” I countered.
His mouth tugged in a faint almost-smile that barely reached his eyes but transformed his entire face. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.
"Why?" My voice came out breathier than I liked.
