[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 723:
Crawford’s hand returned to her boot. He worked the laces with practiced efficiency, loosening them in a pattern that suggested he had done this before, many times, in contexts she didn’t want to imagine.
The boot was stuck. The swelling had turned her ankle into a shape that no longer fit the leather, and she felt his hesitation, his calculation of how much force would be required, how much pain he was about to cause.
“Cut it,” she said.
“What p>
“The boot. Cut it off.” She met his eyes, forced herself to hold them. “It’s a thousand dollars of Italian leather. I don’t care. Just—” she swallowed, “—just get it off p>
Crawford’s expression shifted. Something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or respect—and he reached into his pocket, withdrew a folding knife, the blade catching the light as he opened it.
“Hold still p>
The leather parted with a sound like tearing skin. Crawford worked carefully, methodically, slicing through tongue and quarter and lining until the boot fell away in pieces, revealing her foot in its wool sock, the ankle already purpled with bruising, the shape distorted.
“Sock too p>
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘯
“Yes p>
He peeled it away with the same care and precision, and she saw his face change as the injury was revealed—the professional assessment, the quick cataloging of symptoms, the particular focus of a man who had seen worse and knew exactly how bad this was.
“Partial tear,” he said. “Lateral ligament. Not complete, or you’d be screaming.” His fingers hovered above the skin, not quite touching, mapping the swelling with air pressure. “Ice, compression, elevation. No weight bearing for seventy-two hours minimum p>
“That’s not p>
“Negotiable.” He looked up at her, his expression hardening into something that reminded her, suddenly, of why he was dangerous. “You push this, you walk on it, you pretend you’re fine, and you’ll damage the joint permanently. You’ll limp for the rest of your life. Is that what you want p>
June pressed her lips together. Said nothing.
Crawford held her gaze for three seconds. Then he nodded, as if she had answered, and reached for the first aid kit.
The ice pack was chemical, activated by twisting, and he wrapped it in a cloth before pressing it to her ankle, his hand holding it in place, his fingers spanning her calf with easy possession.
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll carry you down p>
“I can walk p>
“You can’t.” He didn’t look at her, kept his eyes on her ankle, on the ice, on the physical reality of her vulnerability. “And even if you could, I wouldn’t let you. This is my fault, June. I startled the deer. I caused the fall. The least I can do is ensure you get home safely p>
“Your fault p>
“I was watching you. Following too close, wanting—” he stopped, shook his head, “—wanting too much. The deer sensed it. Spooked. If I had given you space, if I had respected your boundaries instead of p>
“Instead of what?” June’s voice was soft, dangerous. “Instead of planning exactly how to make yourself indispensable? Instead of installing cameras and waiting for your moment p>
Crawford’s hand tightened on her calf. Not painful. Possessive.