Bian gazed down at his hand. It was being held delicately, carefully, as if it were something precious.
Large fingers that curled gently around his wrist were warm and strong, veins prominent under smooth skin. The pads of those thumbs pressed just lightly against his pulse.
His breath caught.
'He's holding my hand.'
The thought was simple. Stupid, even. But it sent a flutter through his chest that he couldn't shake.
He let his gaze slowly drift upward. Along the forearms first—solid, lean muscle under tight sleeves. The curve of the biceps, the broad muscular shoulders. This was someone who could break bones without trying.
And yet he held Bian's wrist like it was something fragile.
His eyes lifted higher.
To the neck. That collarbone that peeked out from under the armored fabric. The shadow of a throat that moved with each breath. A jawline sharp enough to cut, lips firm and pink, and then—those eyes shimmering gold like molten metal.
Bian froze.
Too handsome.
