Then his brow is furrowed, his mind captured by the task at hand. With swift fingers, he’s tracing the jagged cut, threading skin and tissue together. I sigh, relief flooding me with every pass of his fingertips. He looks up at me then, eyes wandering over my face in a way that makes me feel stripped bare before him. “Better?” His voice is barely more than a murmur. “Better,” I breathe.
