Chapter 2: Hands in the Dark

Morning light didn't matter when you couldn't see it. I still felt the shift, the way the air warmed against the glass walls and the ocean's roar sharpened like it had a grudge. My fingers kept tracing the same useless blueprint on the duvet, the one I'd started last night after Warren left me standing there with his handprint still burning at my waist.

The coffee smell hit me from down the hall. Black. I shuffled out of bed and my toes hit the carpet's faint damp spot from yesterday's mess. My stomach clenched. Not again.

"You up?" Warren's voice came from the doorway, low and already impatient.

"Define up." I stood fast, hand groping for the wall. My hip smacked the nightstand. "And stay out. I can find the bathroom without an escort."

His footsteps didn't retreat. They came closer, measured, filling the room the way only he could. I pictured him there, six-three of barely leashed control, and my skin went tight.

"Therapy in twenty," he said. "Doctor's orders. Touch protocol. Don't make me carry you."

I barked a laugh that tasted sour. "Touch protocol. Sounds like the fine print in one of your hostile takeovers. What's the angle here, Warren? The board's got you by the balls, but you could've fought them. You always fight."

He didn't answer right away. Fabric shifted. I knew that move—thumb across his jaw, biting back whatever he really wanted to say. The silence stretched until I wanted to scream.

"Breakfast is on the counter," he said finally. "I'll be in the therapy wing. Don't be late."

His steps retreated. I stood there, throat thick, hating the way my pulse still jumped from nothing but his voice. Three steps to the door. Left turn. Wall cool under my palm. I found the mug, took a burning sip, then dumped in three sugars with my finger because I was apparently six years old again.

By the time I reached the therapy wing the air had changed—clean, eucalyptus sharp, no ocean noise. Just my own breathing, too loud.

"You're three minutes late," Warren said from ahead of me.

"Sue me. Or breach the contract and pay the millions. We both know you'd rather be anywhere else."

His hand closed around my elbow without warning. Warm. Steady. The contact zipped down my spine and I hated how I didn't pull away fast enough.

"This way. Room's built for sensory work. Textures. Sounds. Your doctor was specific."

I let him steer me. The floor changed under my feet, carpet to something rubbery and forgiving. Designed for people who fall. How nice.

We stopped. His fingers left my elbow and the absence felt louder than it should. I tucked hair behind my ear even though it hadn't moved.

"Protocol is simple," he said, voice dropping into CEO territory. "You touch. I describe. We map the space without sight."

"And you get to play God in the dark. Cute."

He moved. Bench creaked as he sat. The air between us felt ready to spark.

"Start with my hand."

I reached. Found his wrist first. Pulse steady under my fingers. Strong. His breath caught—just a fraction—but I heard it.

"Palm up," he said, rougher now.

I turned it, traced the calluses, the small scar near his thumb. My architect brain took over, mapping every ridge like it was load-bearing wall. Dangerous ground.

"Your hands are bigger than I remembered," I muttered. "From that holiday party. Before you gutted my father's firm."

"Catherine."

"Just describe something. That's the deal, right?"

He stayed quiet a beat. "Bench is teak. Your shirt's that deep green you used to wear. The one that made your eyes look impossible."

My throat closed. I slid my hand up his arm. Muscle jumped under cotton, then skin at the rolled cuff. Warm. My own skin heated in answer and I bit my lip hard.

This wasn't working. I kept going anyway, finger sketching invisible plans on his forearm. Tension points. Where it might snap.

His free hand covered mine, stopping me. The contact sent heat spiraling low.

"It has to work," he said. "Ninety days. Or the board takes everything."

I turned toward his voice. "And what exactly are they holding over you? What secret's big enough to make Warren Fitzpatrick play house with the daughter of the man he destroyed?"

His thumb brushed my knuckles once. Deliberate. My breath snagged. I wanted to yank away. I wanted to lean in. My body was a traitor and I was too tired to lie about it.

I reached higher before I could stop myself. Found his jaw—stubbled, tight. He went completely still. I traced the line of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. His breath fanned hot across my wrist, uneven now.

"What color are your eyes right now?" I asked, voice dropping even though I didn't want it to. "The ones that used to look at me across conference tables like I was a problem to fix."

"Dark," he said. Clipped. Guarded. "Almost black."

My fingers moved to the corner of his mouth. It twitched. Small scar there, raised. My thumb brushed it and he jerked back half an inch. The bench creaked.

"Don't," he said. It came out low. Not quite an order.

I should have stopped. Instead I leaned closer. My knee brushed his thigh—solid heat. My pulse hammered in my ears. This was the man who'd taken everything. So why did my body think his skin was the only honest thing left?

A door opened behind us. Cool air rushed in with the smell of sharp perfume and cigarette smoke. I dropped my hand like it burned.

"Well," a woman's voice purred. "Isn't this cozy. Catherine Nightingale. Warren didn't mention you'd be this... hands-on so early."

Warren stood so fast the bench scraped. His shoulder brushed my arm as he moved between us. The loss of his warmth left me floating, heart still racing from whatever the hell that was.

"Elena," he said, ice cold. "This wing is off-limits. You know that."

"And yet." Her heels clicked closer. I could picture the perfect chignon, the suit that cost more than my car. "The board sent me to check on our investment. Seems the guardianship has gotten quite personal."

I straightened my spine, forcing my shoulders back. "Catherine Nightingale. Though I'm sure you already knew that. Warren's ex, right? The one who hoards scandals like trading cards."

Cool fingers gripped mine briefly, dismissive. "Elena Voss. And blindness hasn't dulled that tongue. Refreshing."

Warren's voice cracked like a whip. "State your business and leave. Catherine needs to focus on recovery."

"Of course." Elena's tone dripped fake sweetness. "Though from what I walked in on, recovery looks a lot like foreplay. Careful, Warren. The board might question your dedication."

My cheeks burned. Warren didn't deny it fast enough. The silence sat there, ugly.

"If you're here to threaten me," I said, keeping my voice even, "you'll need better material than calling me his charity project. I've survived worse."

She laughed, low and musical. It crawled over my skin.

"Oh sweetie. It's not you I'm threatening." Her voice dropped. "Warren knows what strings I can pull. Don't you, darling?"

"Enough," he snapped. "Leave the files on my desk. I'll handle the board."

Her heels retreated. But not before she leaned close enough for her perfume to sting my nose. "Watch your step in the dark, Catherine. Some secrets bite back."

The door clicked shut. The room went quiet except for Warren's breathing, still too fast. I waited for him to say something. Anything. Explain. Lie. Touch me again. He didn't.

Instead his fingers closed around my wrist, hard this time. Desperate. We stood there, the silence stretching until my nerves screamed. No confession. No neat answer. Just this raw, unfinished mess twisting between us.

He let go.

His footsteps moved toward the door, heavy. It opened. Closed. I was alone with the echo of what we'd almost done and the taste of half-truths in my mouth.

Whatever he'd been about to say about my father stayed buried. And some sick part of me wasn't sure I wanted it dug up. Not if it meant losing the only solid thing I had left—his hands in the dark.