"I said it's fine," Derek growled, turning his head sharply away as Kira reached toward the small cut on his forehead again.
Inside the airy living room, floor-to-ceiling glass doors stood wide open to the deck and the endless stretch of sea beyond. The space smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, with the distant crash of waves drifting in on the warm breeze.
"No, it's not fine." She refused to back off. "It's not healing the way it should. You could get an infection."
They sat side by side on the wide twin sofa. Flora had already set the dining table for two and discreetly disappeared into the kitchen. Kira had commandeered the first-aid kit left on the coffee table and was now determined to clean and cover the wound properly before they ate.
Derek eyed her with open irritation. "It's because of the plasma and platelet donation this morning," he muttered. "It'll be closed by tomorrow."
