All That Went Unsaid | Complete (18+)

Chapter 28

Sophie Esinberg's POV

I obeyed, the adrenaline finally draining from my body until all that remained was the dull ache of my ankle and the sharper, more dangerous awareness of him. I watched him disappear down the narrow hall, the sound of his boots soft against the pine floor. My ankle throbbed in slow pulses, the swelling already pressing against the seam of my sock.

When he returned, he carried more than the small tin box of antiseptic and bandages. An ice pack hung from one hand, a rolled compression sock from the other.

Dropping to a crouch in front of me he slid a large palm beneath my calf, lifting my foot into his lap. The heat of him soaked through the thin fabric of my trekking pants, a contrast to the sudden bite of cold when he pressed the ice pack to my ankle. I sucked in a sharp breath.

"Let's get the swelling down first," he said. The movement brought him so close I could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap—cedar and rain.

"Easy," he murmured, thumb brushing the inside of my knee in a slow, absent circle. "I know it's cold. Just a few minutes."

His fingers adjusted the pack with practiced care, each shift deliberate. The weight of his touch—steady, sure—made the cabin feel smaller, the air thicker.

"Better?" he asked.

I nodded, though the word better didn't quite fit the storm moving through me.

When he judged the swelling calmed enough, he set the pack aside and reached for the compression sock. "Lift for me," he said gently.

He peeled the damp fabric of my pants up past my knee, exposing bare skin to the cool air. His knuckles grazed my calf as he eased the sock over my foot and up my ankle, the slow glide of fabric and fingers making my pulse skip.

"Not too tight?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher.

"It's fine," I whispered, though my breath had gone thin.

Only when he finished did he open the tin box, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the space.  He raised the cotton dipped in antiseptic and started cleaning my scraped knee.

I flinched at the sting.

"Sorry, princess," he murmured, lifting his eyes to mine. Ocean blue, steady and impossibly close. "Almost done." His touch so tender and attentive, that for a second I almost forgot about the pain in my ankle and my scraped knee. 

His hands moved with a precision that felt almost reverent—wrapping the bandage in smooth, even lines, his fingertips barely skimming my skin yet leaving trails of heat behind. The scrape on my knee throbbed, but the sting of the antiseptic was nothing compared to the steady warmth of his touch.

So much had happened today—Daniel's confrontation, the fall, the long tense hike—but all I could think about was Raymond here in this quiet cabin, kneeling in front of me. The lamplight caught the dark gold in his hair as he bent closer, his head bowed like he was in prayer, so careful as he cleaned away the blood and dirt. Every brush of his fingers sent a shiver through me, a slow pull down my spine.

Did he feel it too? The charge that hovered between us, fragile and magnetic? Did he know what it was doing to me, having him tend to me like I was something precious?

He shifted to check my other foot, and I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from sliding them into his soft, sun-warmed hair. My breath snagged at the thought. This man had stood on stadium fields with entire nations watching, confessed his own anxiety like it was an ordinary truth while I'd buried mine in silence and shame. He'd led his team to a world championship and still caught an early flight the next morning just to see me.