Page 114 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
The faint rustle of the doctor’s bag opened wider.
I heard the careful clink of metal instruments being set out, one after another—clinical sounds that made my stomach tighten despite my attempt to remain detached.
Before Rafael could step closer, I shifted internally.
Then the mattress dipped slightly beside me.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
I felt his hand settle around my ankle.
Far gentler than I expected from a man like him.
The contact sent a familiar wave of tension through me.
My instinct was to pull away, to put distance between us, but his grip remained steady, giving me no reason to flinch.
"Easy," he said quietly.
The physician began giving instructions while Rafael guided my injured leg onto the bed.
His hands were careful and patient.
The complete opposite of what I wanted them to be.
I hated that.
Hated the warmth of his palm against my skin.
Hated the steady presence of him sitting so close.
Hated that I could feel his breath whenever he leaned nearer to examine the wound.
And most of all, I hated myself for noticing.
The faint scent of his cologne lingered beneath the cleaner smell of soap.
Not overpowering. Not intended to impress. Just Rafael.
I focused on the texture of the sheets beneath my hand and counted each breath.
This was the same man who had made me swear vows beside another woman's grave.
The same man who barely tolerated my existence.
Yet here he was, handling my injured leg with a care that made no sense.
I straightened slightly, forcing my shoulders to stay steady even though my hands still trembled faintly in my lap.
I didn’t even realize he was done following the physician’s instructions until the sharp sting in my shin faded into a dull, steady throb.
At some point, Rafael’s hands had stopped moving.
His hand lingered against my leg only long enough to secure the bandage before he finally withdrew. The loss of contact should have relieved me.
Instead, it left an unsettling awareness behind.
Fabric rustled.
