All Chained Up (Devil's Rock #1)(7)

She sucked in a breath and shivered, rebelling at the idea that she was actually this close to an obviously dangerous criminal. Close enough to note the dark rings circling his irises. So close she could count the eyelashes framing his eyes. Dark lashes far too lush for any man to rightly possess. She held her breath, frozen for a long moment. Pinned beneath his scrutiny, watching him watch her, detecting the direction of his gaze, every inch of her face his eyes touched. Her eyes, nose, mouth, and hair. He missed nothing.

She tore her gaze away and finished cleaning his wound with unsteady hands. She reached for the butterfly strips, deciding to use them until Dr. Walker was able to suture. He didn’t move as she carefully applied the strips.

Finished, she stood back, stripping off her gloves. “Why don’t you rest back on the bed until the doctor can examine you?”

He stood up from the bed, presumably to center himself on the mattress, but the action brought him closer to her. She felt draped in his shadow, the great height and breadth of him falling over her like a blanket. The male scent of him filled her nostrils.

Briar stepped back quickly. Too quickly. She bumped the standing tray and sent it rolling several feet with a loud whir.

She chased after the tray, catching it with fumbling hands, then positioned it near the bed again, her hands trembling. You’re a professional, Briar. Act like one.

He watched her with flinty eyes as he sank back down on the bed. She felt ten kinds of idiot. He was in steel restraints. There was an armed corrections officer twenty feet away. Cameras in every corner. A panic button six feet away. Relax, relax, relax. Do what you would do with any other patient.

He started to ease himself back on the mattress, and she couldn’t help notice the slowness with which he moved. A wince passed over his face. It was so swift she almost missed it.

She stepped forward, forgetting her own nerves in the face of his pain. “What else is bothering you?”

He shook his head as he fully reclined on the bed, the pillow beneath his head, the white cotton stark against his dark cropped hair.

“You’re moving slowly simply because of your head wound?” she pressed, unconvinced.

“I’m fine.”

He was lying. She immediately knew that this big guy of few words was withholding something.

“Let me take a look . . .” She moved forward and began running her hands up his arms and over his shoulders. Beneath his shirt his muscles reacted and tensed, tightening under her questing fingers. It was a clinical examination. She had performed it countless times before, testing for injuries. Even if she wasn’t oblivious to the hard cut of his body, she noted it all dispassionately, for the most part, keeping her inspection to cool observation. He was all lean lines and hollows. Not an inch of fat or softness anywhere on him.

She watched his face carefully, trying to detect if her touch hurt him anywhere. He held himself still, expression impassive. She gently probed his muscled pecs, skimming with her palms and then pressing down with the tips of her fingers. When she reached his left rib cage, the wince returned for a brief second before he masked it.

“Here?” She lightly prodded the area and a hissed breath escaped him.

Nodding, she lifted her hands from him and stepped back. “Will you please sit up and remove your shirt?” Her cool, efficient tone pleased her, reaffirming that she was business as usual. She wasn’t frightened of him. Nor did his size, build, or above-average looks move her in any way. Not in the least. Not at all.

He stared at her, unmoving, his jaw set at a resolute angle. She frowned at him.

After a long moment he sat up and swung his legs over the side, apparently deciding to oblige her request. Thankfully, she didn’t jump out of her skin at his movement this time. She stepped aside, giving him more room and waiting for him to remove his shirt, keeping her face coolly professional. A quick glance at Dr. Walker and Josiah revealed them both conferring over the inmate with the busted knee.

She looked back at Callaghan. He still hadn’t removed his shirt.

“Your shirt, please.”

He glanced down at his bound hands and then looked back at her with a cocked eyebrow. He needed help.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Bracing herself, she stepped forward and reached around him to grasp the hem of his white shirt. As she leaned forward, the aroma of some kind of industrial-strength laundry detergent seared the inside of her nose. But beneath that overpowering odor there was the scent of him. Male musk and a hint of clean sweat.

Briar tugged the shirt up, her knuckles grazing the smooth flesh of his back. He hissed a breath again.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

His face was in the space beside her head, directly above her shoulder. A shiver raced down her spine as she felt his warm breath against her ear.

Anxious to put an end to their proximity, she became less careful with her movements and yanked the shirt up, pulling it over his head, the backs of her fingers brushing the dark cropped hair that hugged his scalp. She glimpsed a tattoo on his back, but he reclined back on the bed before she could properly view all of it.

She stepped away then, and her mouth dried at the sight of his body. A dragon tattoo wrapped around the side of his torso, evidently traveling from his back, crawling over his chiseled flesh like a living thing, its mouth open in a fearsome snarl across the front of his rib cage.

Here was the proof of what she had already felt. Hard sinew. Lean muscle. His was not a body given to leisure. Several white-ridged scars decorated his shoulders and torso, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from dragging over him, counting each one. He must engage in knife fights regularly. She stopped counting at twelve.