"The wound isn't too deep. It'll heal in a few days. Don't forget to change the bandages." A doctor explained to Zayden, who only nodded, carefully absorbing every instruction. He accepted a few medications from his private physician.
Once the doctor left, silence returned. Zayden turned to look at Irish, still lying pale on the bed. Gently, he brushed her cheek, as if trying to erase the lingering fear in her eyes.
"Rest here until you're fully healed," Zayden murmured softly. "This is my secret apartment. A place I used when I was still in college. You could say… it's my little hideout."
Irish gave a faint smile, forcing herself to appear strong. "I'm honored to know about it," she whispered. "Sorry about earlier. Once my house is fixed, I'll leave right away."
Zayden shook his head slowly. "We both chose that mistake, Irish. Don't take all the blame."
He stood, intending to leave her for a moment—but Irish quickly grabbed his wrist.
"Where are you going?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
"To cook dinner," Zayden replied with a small smile. "You must be hungry, right? Before I go, I want to make sure you eat something decent." He bent down and playfully pinched her nose, making her pout.
"I'll come with you," Irish blurted, slowly getting off the bed despite Zayden's attempt to stop her.
"You should be resting," he scolded half-heartedly.
Irish just gave him a skeptical look. "I'm not sure you can actually cook," she said, full of suspicion.
Zayden chuckled, amused. "You doubt your Uncle's skills?"
"Very much," Irish huffed playfully, making Zayden even more tickled.
Finally, the two stepped into the apartment's small kitchen, carrying with them a strange warmth that slowly melted the tension between them.
Zayden opened the fridge, scanning for ingredients his men had just stocked. Irish leaned casually against the doorway, her bandaged hand resting at her side.
"Are you sure you can do this? The stove won't explode, right?" she teased, raising an eyebrow mockingly.
Zayden glanced back, his smile half-challenging. "If I succeed, want to make a bet?"
"I'm not sure…" Irish grinned mischievously. "I trust you more in other areas."
Zayden shut the fridge with one hand, then leaned lazily against the counter. "Want proof firsthand?" His voice dropped an octave, thick with challenge.
Irish pretended to busy herself with opening a drawer, searching for a knife she didn't actually need. "I prefer proof through taste… not promises."
Zayden let out a low chuckle. He walked closer, reaching for a cutting board from the overhead cabinet—his body deliberately brushing past Irish, close enough for her to catch the masculine scent of his soap.
Their bodies nearly touched, but Zayden held back, letting the air between them simmer.
Irish tried to stay composed, but when she stepped back, her foot caught on a small rug under the table. She stumbled backward in surprise.
Instinctively, Zayden caught her.
His hands gripped her waist tightly, pulling her small frame flush against his chest. Their breaths collided, their bodies pressed together. Irish could feel Zayden's heartbeat—wild, erratic, matching her own.
She looked up, meeting his darkened gaze—deep, intense, brimming with restrained desire.
Zayden leaned down slowly, his face just inches from hers. Their noses almost touched. His lips hovered, teasing, making Irish shiver.
"Did you fall into my arms on purpose?" Zayden rasped, his breath warming her skin.
Irish held her breath, cheeks flushing. "Don't accuse me, Uncle! You're the one looking for an excuse to hold me. Isn't that right?"
Zayden smirked, then—playfully—licked the corner of her lips, so lightly it felt like a whisper of wind, before slowly releasing her.
"You're dangerous," he murmured, his eyes burning.
Irish stood frozen, her body still burning from that fleeting touch. She watched Zayden's back as he returned to the counter, acting as if nothing had happened.
"You're far more dangerous, Uncle…" she whispered coyly, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, resting her head against his broad back.
Zayden stiffened, his breath turning heavy as Irish's hands roamed his chest, tracing the muscles beneath his thin shirt.
"Can we… continue this mistake?" Irish murmured, her voice low and tempting. "At least… until my window gets fixed?"
Zayden exhaled sharply, struggling to think straight. "What do you really see in me? Money?"
Irish sighed softly, then boldly turned him around, forcing him to look into her eyes. There was unwavering certainty in her gaze.
"If I only wanted money, I'd ask for it now," she said softly, tracing his chest with her fingertips. "But I don't want that."
Zayden studied her deeply, his expression serious, as if searching for the truth behind her words.
"I'm attracted to you, Uncle," Irish continued, her voice barely a whisper. "And if possible… I want to have your child."
The words exploded between them, igniting the already scorching air.