Chapter 4 - The Touch of Warm Blood
The moment my palm touched the back of his hand, Victor’s entire body stiffened into solid iron.
Every muscle in his broad shoulders locked. His breath hitched in his throat, and for three agonizing seconds, he didn't move a single millimeter. I could feel the intense, burning heat radiating from his skin, the thick corded tendons beneath his knuckles, and the sharp, rhythmic pulse of his blood beneath my fingers.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I realized instantly what I had done. I had just broken the sacred boundary—I had touched a man who had isolated himself from the physical world for over a decade.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered frantically, starting to pull my hand back. “I shouldn't have—”
Before I could retract my hand, Victor’s fingers moved.
Slowly, deliberately, his large, calloused hand turned over beneath mine. His long fingers reached up and closed around my palm, wrapping around my hand with a gentle, fierce intensity that made my breath catch in my chest.
His skin was warm—so warm it felt like fire against my cold, overworked fingers.
He didn't pull me closer, nor did he let me go. He simply held my hand in the middle of the dark mahogany table, his gray eyes fixed on our joined fingers as if he were looking at a miracle he couldn't quite comprehend.
“Aaliyah,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan?”
“Do you know what happens to a man when he stops being touched?” he asked softly, his eyes slowly rising to meet mine. “He turns into stone. His skin forgets what warmth feels like. His blood turns into ice water. He starts to believe he isn't human anymore.”
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The sheer emotional weight radiating from him was suffocating.
“When you fell against my chest last week,” Victor continued, his grip tightening slightly around my fingers, “it was the first time in twelve years another person’s body had touched mine without trying to hurt me, steal from me, or ask me for a favor. It was just... warm blood. Living skin.”
Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I squeezed his hand back, letting him feel the steady, reassuring pulse of my own palm against his.
“You’re still alive, Victor,” I whispered, using his first name for the very first time. “You don't have to stay in the tomb.”
He stared at me, his gray eyes searching my face, scanning every feature—from the dark circles beneath my eyes to the faint freckles across my nose—as if he were memorizing a new map.
Across the pub, Marcus dropped a tray of glasses with a loud CRASH.
The noise broke the spell.
Victor slowly released my hand, leaning back into the banquette, though his eyes never left my face. He smoothed down his dark plum tie, taking a deep, steadying breath that expanded his broad chest.
“You have clinicals tomorrow morning, don't you?” he asked, his voice regaining its usual cool, controlled cadence.
I blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “Yes. Pediatric rotations at 6:00 a.m.”
“Then you need to go home,” Victor said softly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, sleek black business card made of heavy metal, laying it gently beside the silver-embroidered handkerchief. “This is my private line. If you ever need a ride, if your bus is late, if you need anything at all... you call this number.”
I picked up the metal card. It held no company name, no address, and no title. Just a single phone number embossed in elegant gold thread, and a name: Victor Morgan.
“I can’t take favors from you, Mr. Morgan,” I said softly.
“It’s not a favor, Aaliyah,” he said, looking down at his vodka glass. “It’s a selfish request. I want to make sure the only person who listens to me stays safe.”
I looked at the card, then at the handkerchief, and finally at the powerful, solitary man sitting in the dark alcove.
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“I’ll see you on Saturday, Victor,” I whispered.
He didn't answer with words, but as I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, I saw the faint, unmistakable ghost of a genuine smile rest upon his face.
