Sawyer worked in silence, his grip firm yet precise as he wrapped the bandage around Yazmina’s hand. His movements were practiced, methodical—just like everything else he did.

Yet, as he secured the bandage with a sharp tug, he hesitated.

Why was he doing this?

This wasn’t part of his job. It wasn’t his responsibility. If she was reckless enough to injure herself, it was her own problem. That’s how he operated—how he always operated.

But for some reason, when he saw her hands, the tiny cuts and wounds lining her fingers, something inside him snapped. He hadn’t thought. He had simply acted.

And now, as he looked at her, watching the way she studied him with those cold, knowing eyes, he realized that she had noticed, too.

Damn it.

“You’ve been reckless,” he muttered, securing the bandage with more force than necessary.

Yazmina arched a brow. “I didn’t know you cared.”

His fingers paused against her wrist.

He let go immediately, leaning back slightly, crossing his arms as he schooled his expression into something unreadable.

“I don’t.” His voice was flat, clipped, but there was an edge to it. A hesitation. “I just don’t like wasted assets.”

Yazmina smirked.

He hated that smirk.

Not because it irritated him—no, that wasn’t it.

It was because she was right.

She could see through him, through whatever this was, and it unsettled him.

Sawyer prided himself on control. On logic. On being able to separate himself from the useless distractions of emotions.

And yet—

He had grabbed her without thinking. Tended to her wounds like it was instinct.

Why?

Why her?

Yazmina leaned forward slightly, resting her bandaged hand on the arm of the chair. “So tell me, Doctor,” she mused, voice smooth, almost teasing. “What exactly do you think I’m wasting myself on?”

His gaze flickered to her hands.

Those damn hands.

“Something you shouldn’t be involved in.”

She chuckled softly, like this was a game to her. “And yet, here I am.”

He clenched his jaw. He didn’t like that answer.

But he let her stand. Let her turn to leave.

And yet, as she walked away, he didn’t look away.

Sawyer remained seated long after Yazmina left, his hands still resting where they had been only moments ago—where her wrist had been.

His fingers curled slightly, a shadow of the grip he had unconsciously tightened around her when he first grabbed her. His mind worked through the calculations, dissecting every moment, every instinctual action he had taken.

This wasn’t like him.

Sawyer was a man of control. Of discipline. He made decisions based on logic, not impulse. He didn’t waste time on sentiment.

And yet—

He had moved without thinking. He had treated her wounds, as if it were the natural course of action.

As if he cared.

His jaw tightened at the word. No. That wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

He wasn’t capable of caring.

People were variables. Pieces on a board. Some were useful, most were disposable. He understood their functions, their purposes, their limits.

But Yazmina didn’t fit into any of those categories.

She was an anomaly.

She was intelligent—too intelligent. Calculating. Unafraid. She carried herself with the cold, detached confidence of someone who knew she was untouchable. But it wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t naivety.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

Something dangerous.

And then there was her beauty—effortless, haunting. The kind that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it nonetheless. Sharp eyes, dark and knowing.

Features sculpted with an almost unnatural precision, as if crafted to unsettle as much as they intrigued. There was no warmth in her elegance, no softness in the way she moved. She was like a finely honed blade—sleek, precise, and meant to cut.

And yet, when he saw her hands, raw and marked with small wounds—he hadn’t thought of danger.

He had only thought of stopping the bleeding.

That realization made his stomach twist.

He didn’t do things like that.

Not for anyone.

Not even for himself.

He didn’t understand why he was like this with her.

Why he kept noticing her.

Why he had acted without hesitation.

It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t strategy.

It was something else.

Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

He clenched his fist, feeling the phantom sensation of her skin beneath his touch.

This needed to stop.

Whatever this was—this growing awareness of her, this inexplicable pull—it was a distraction.

And distractions were weaknesses.

Sawyer didn’t have weaknesses.

He wouldn’t.

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet.

No more.

The next time he saw Yazmina, he would remind himself exactly who she was.

Just another piece in the game.

Just another variable to control.

And yet—

Somewhere deep in his mind, a quiet, unwanted voice whispered:

Liar.

----

Yazmina walked through the dimly lit corridor, her fingers lightly grazing the bandages on her hand.

Sawyer’s touch still lingered.

She could feel it—the firm, precise grip of someone who had acted purely on instinct. But instinct and Sawyer didn’t belong in the same sentence.

That man was cold, methodical, and ruthless. Every action he took was deliberate, calculated down to the smallest variable.

So why had he done it?

Why had he looked at her hands and reacted like that?

She smirked, pressing her thumb into the bandage, just enough to feel the faint sting underneath.

She had noticed the way his expression shifted, the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes.

Frustration.

Not at her—at himself.

Harley Sawyer was many things, but self-doubt wasn’t one of them. Yet for a moment, just a fleeting second, she had seen it.

And she found that incredibly amusing.

Yazmina wasn’t blind. She knew what she was to most people. A mystery. A threat. A woman who never gave too much, never allowed anyone close enough to grasp what was truly going on behind her eyes.

Sawyer was no different.

But unlike the others, he had the unfortunate habit of watching her too closely.

And now, for the first time, she had made him question himself.

That was power.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips.

But then, her fingers tightened slightly over the bandage.

This wasn’t just about games.

She hadn’t been reckless. She had been testing a theory.

The scorpion—the one she had stolen from Crane—had refused to eat anything she had given it. No insects, no meat, nothing. But when she touched the glass, when her blood was near—

It reacted.

No hesitation, no indifference.

It wanted her blood.

And when she had finally allowed it to take a drop—

Its body pulsed.

Something changed.

She could feel it.

There was a connection.

One she didn’t fully understand yet.

One she needed to figure out before anyone else did.

She turned a corner, her smirk fading into something more neutral, more unreadable.

Sawyer had been too focused on her wounds to question why she had them.

That was good.

Because if he had asked, if he had pressed just a little harder—

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep the truth from him.

And for now, that was a secret best kept buried.

For now.