“Don’t lie to me! Your knuckles were bleeding, and you didn’t even feel anything?” I snapped, taking his hands back, examining them. They were just like I remembered the morning he came back from the UK. Did he work himself out to exhaustion and pain? What could make him that ignorant of his pain?

When he didn’t answer, I glared at him.

“Well? Mind giving me an answer? And why didn’t you treat them?” Anger, irritation, and concern nagged into my veins.

When he looked at me, my heart clenched. His eyes held pain, desperation, and something intense that I couldn’t decipher. Though his eyes said a lot, I wanted him to speak to me.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“I will. After the date. But not now,” he said softly, placing another lingering kiss on my hand.

“Let me treat them first—”

“It’s all right. They’re fine now.”

“But you could get an infection!” I argued, once again reaching out for his knuckles.

He shook his head. “I won’t. Don’t worry. I’m used to them.”

Something squeezed my chest at his words. He said the same thing the other day. He was used to the pain. Did he hurt himself purposely?

“Rosebud, I can’t go on a date with bandages, now can I?” He raised his brow when I didn’t agree with his suggestion of letting it go. When I continued to hold his eyes, he sighed. “All right, check them once the date is over, all right?”

I nodded. At least he agreed to get them treated. I’d have to talk to him about it. He couldn’t be so careless.

The whole ride from my house to our destination was silent, my hand was secured into his. Only occasionally to change gears, he left it, only to grab it again. No matter how much I complained, I loved the feeling of my small hand getting lost in his bigger and safer one.

When the car stopped before a huge iron gate, just a little far from the highway, I scrutinized the place. It looked… familiar. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Getting out of the car, he opened the door for me. When I went to do it for myself, he’d stopped me with a discontented look.

Well, if he wanted to be a gentleman, who was I to stop him?

Taking his hand, I got out and looked up at the vast gate. Turquoise Heaven was the name written in bold, golden words above.

“Where are we, Ace?” I asked.

With his arms around my waist, he murmured in my ear, “Go in and find out yourself.”

Pressing my lips together, I wiggled out of his arms and approached the gate. With a loud croak, the wings opened itself, welcoming us in.

Then I saw the guard inside, nodding in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Valencian. Welcome, Ms. Hutton.”