Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 57

He held Gwyneth’s wrist, his grip gentle—almost too gentle.

For some reason, Gwyneth found his touch alarmingly hot against her skin, as if his hand were burning.

The Cullinan glided through the dusky streets, its cabin filled with the subtle scent of cedar, now tinged with the sharp acidity of red wine.

Curled up in the passenger seat, Gwyneth watched Bennett out of the corner of her eye. His right hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles sharp in the low light, while his left arm rested casually on the window ledge.

The sleeve of his soaked shirt was rolled up to his elbow, exposing a patch of skin that was red and raw, the edges slightly swollen. In the dim light, a few tiny blisters shimmered on his forearm.

Silence thickened in the car, the oppressive air around Bennett so heavy it made it hard for Gwyneth to breathe.

Was it the pain from the burn? Or was it about Yardley?

The car was dead quiet—only their rough, uneven breaths seemed to fill the narrow space, colliding and tangling together.

Her gaze drifted again to the angry red of his arm. When that scalding sauce came flying at her, he’d stepped in front of her without a second thought, shielding her by sheer instinct.

“Does it hurt?” she finally asked, unable to hold it in any longer. Her voice sounded small in the hush, softer than she realized.

Bennett’s fingers curled almost imperceptibly where they rested on the window. He kept his eyes fixed on the river of headlights ahead, the lines of his profile drawn sharp and cold by shifting shadows.

After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice low and even: “I’m fine.”

Just two words—so light, so offhand.

But they seared Gwyneth’s heart all the same.

Fine? How could he possibly be fine?

She took a slow, steady breath, pushing down the strange ache swelling in her chest. When she spoke again, her voice dropped even lower, but there was a quiet determination in her tone. “When we get back, let me take care of that burn for you. I’ll help.”

“Okay.” This time, his response came quick—a single syllable, emotionless and unreadable.

Silence fell again, but something between them had shifted. The air was no longer suffocating; instead, a subtle tension seemed to wind its way through the space, fragile and unspoken.

In the Midrise Mansion.

Gwyneth hurried inside, swapped her shoes, and went straight to the living room cabinet. She grabbed the burn ointment and some cotton swabs with practiced hands before heading to the sofa.

Bennett was already there, leaning back on the wide couch, eyes closed and brow furrowed.

He’d undone a couple of shirt buttons, the damp fabric clinging to his chest and tracing the lines of muscle beneath. His left arm lay exposed—red, swollen, blistered.

Gwyneth felt as if an invisible hand clenched around her heart.

Why had he stepped in front of her like that? Why take the injury himself?

“Give me your hand,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could.

Gwyneth dipped a cotton swab into the antiseptic, then carefully touched it to the edge of the burn. The cool liquid barely made contact before she felt the muscles in his arm tense, but he didn’t flinch or make a sound—not even his breathing changed.

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