"Mara?"
I stayed frozen, my heart hammering.
The worst had happened. Daniel himself had caught me trying to run. Every plan, every careful effort—gone.
"Why are you out here?" His voice was low, raspy from sleep, but still calm enough to make my pulse race. I tried to lift my ankle, but pain shot through it, and my knee burned from the fall. My bag had slipped from the sweater, lying useless on the ground, and I felt the weight of my failure pressing down on me.
He crouched slightly, flashlight in one hand, gun glinting faintly in the other. His eyes assessed me quickly, the light catching his face. My chest tightened.
"Are you hurt?" His voice held that same calm, measured tone.
"I—I'm fine," I stammered, even as I winced at the ache in my ankle and knee.
He stepped closer, the beam of the flashlight illuminating me fully. I tried to shield my face with my hands, but I couldn't stop myself from sneaking glances at him. The faint shadows from the flashlight accentuated his jawline, the curve of his shoulders, and the strong line of his forearms. I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze down.
"Sit still. Let me see."
Before I could protest, he moved closer, inspecting the scrapes on my knee and the swelling on my ankle. His hand hovered for a moment, and I flinched slightly from instinct. He noticed but didn't comment, brushing away imaginary dust from my skin. His touch, deliberate and careful, sent an odd warmth through me, and I had to remind myself that he had caught me trying to escape.
"Looks like you'll be limping for a while," he muttered, almost to himself. "We'll have to clean these up. Can you move?"
I shook my head, unable to find words. Fear and pain held me tight.
He shifted the gun into the waistband of his pajama pants and then gently lifted me into his arms, bridal style. My breath caught. I tried not to imagine how close we were, how easily I could feel the warmth of his chest, the tension in his muscles. He moved smoothly, as if I weighed nothing.
Inside, he carried me straight to my bedroom and placed me gently on the bed. He went out for just a moment and returned with a first aid box. I watched him, astonished. He hadn't reprimanded me. He had simply helped.
"This will hurt. Can you manage?" He sat down beside me, his presence filling the room.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
He worked carefully, first dabbing antiseptic on the grazed skin. The sting made me wince, and I bit my lip to stop a sound from escaping. Each movement of his hands was precise, controlled. I couldn't help noticing how long his fingers brushed mine while handling the bandages. It was quick, but enough to make my skin prickle.
"Careful," I murmured, more to myself than him, as I shifted slightly from discomfort.
"You could have seriously hurt yourself." His voice was calm, though I sensed a faint edge of concern. He dabbed antiseptic on the scrape on my knee, gently covering it with a small bandage, then wrapped the elastic bandage around my swollen ankle for support.
I tried to focus on the antiseptic smell, the sensation of the gauze, anything but him sitting so close. But it was impossible. Every subtle movement, the way he leaned over to check the angle of my ankle, the way his eyes followed his hands—it all made my pulse spike.
"All done." He straightened finally, placing the supplies aside. His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary. I wanted to look away but couldn't.
"Rest now." His tone softened slightly, the command gentle but firm. "Selene will check on you in the morning."
"Thank you," I whispered, the words feeling ridiculous in the stillness.
He didn't smile, didn't say another word, but the quiet warmth in the way he watched me left a strange impression. I realized then that he had acknowledged my failed escape without a single harsh remark. No anger. Just action.
I studied him as he stood, the flashlight in hand, gun secure at his side. I had never seen him like this, in a moment of quiet care rather than authority or command.
Finally, he turned and walked away. The silence in my room was suddenly heavier, the estate seeming stiller, as though the walls themselves were aware of what had just happened. My mind replayed every detail—the way he had crouched beside me, the brief brush of fingers, the quiet command to rest.
Daniel Voss was a confusing man.