Hours melted away under the relentless glow of the workshop lights. Luna pushed herself, a frantic energy fueling her movements. Every stroke of her brush, every cut of her blade, was charged with a desperate urgency.
Julian Croft's sabotage haunted her, a phantom touch on the ruined materials. Now, Elias Thorne's unsolicited replacements—the finest pigments, the most exquisite canvases—lay before her, a silent challenge.
She attacked the new canvas, trying to channel her frustration into something beautiful. The clock ticked past midnight, then one. Her shoulders ached, her eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop.
She needed to reclaim lost time. She needed to prove herself, not just to the competition, but to the lingering shadows of doubt Elias’s presence stirred.
Reaching for a fresh sheet of specialty paper, Luna grabbed a utility knife. Her focus fractured for a split second, a flicker of Elias's intense gaze crossing her mind.
A sharp, searing pain exploded in her palm. Her breath hitched. The knife clattered against the metal table with a sickening clang, followed by the soft thud of the paper as it slipped from her grip.
Looking down, a line of crimson bloomed across her left palm, deep and angry. A groan escaped her lips. Stupid. So stupid.
She pressed her thumb against the gash, but the blood welled up, thick and warm, spilling between her fingers.
“Careful, artist.”
Elias Thorne’s voice, low and resonant, cut through the sudden silence. Luna flinched, her head snapping up. She hadn’t realized he was still there, a dark silhouette leaning against the doorframe, watching her.
He pushed off the frame, moving towards her with an effortless stride that seemed to devour the space between them. His eyes, usually unreadable, were narrowed, fixed on her bleeding hand.
“Let me see.” It wasn't a question. It was a command, laced with an unexpected note of concern that chilled her even more than the pain.
Luna hesitated, her heart hammering. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
He ignored her, his gaze unwavering. “Don’t be foolish. That’s more than a scratch.”
Before she could protest further, he reached out, his fingers firm as they gently, but inexorably, took her injured hand. His touch sent a jolt through her, not just from the pain, but from the raw, electric current that still hummed beneath her skin whenever he was near.
She tried to pull away, but his grip was surprisingly gentle yet unyielding. He led her to a small sink at the back of the workshop, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the quiet space.
Turning on the tap, he held her hand under the cool stream. The water washed away the blood, revealing the severity of the cut. It was deep, a clean slice that had barely missed a major vein.
“Stay still,” he murmured, his voice closer now, a low rumble against the hum of the water. He didn't look at her, his dark eyes focused entirely on her hand.
His thumb brushed against her skin as he carefully rinsed the wound. A shiver ran down her spine. The simple action felt intimate, too close, especially coming from a man who had mastered emotional distance.
He pulled a first-aid kit from a nearby shelf – a kit Luna hadn’t even realized was in the workshop. With practiced ease, he opened it, producing antiseptic wipes and sterile gauze.
His fingers were long and strong, surprisingly deft. He cleaned the wound with meticulous care, dabbing gently, his brow furrowed in concentration. Luna watched him, mesmerized by the unexpected tenderness.
He was so close she could smell his subtle cologne, a clean, woody scent that was distinctly Elias. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead as he bent, revealing the sharp line of his jaw.