Alaric attempted to focus on work downstairs.
Attempted being the key word because every now and then his thoughts drifted back to… the blood on her hand, the medications he had photographed, the look on her face before she shattered the wine glass.
None of it made sense and he hated things that didn't make sense.
By the time lunchtime approached, Alaric finally abandoned his laptop and headed toward the kitchen in search of coffee.
The moment he stepped through the doorway… he froze.
Elena stood in front of the stove. With one hand.
Cooking… or at least attempting to.
A bandage was wrapped around her injured palm while her uninjured hand struggled to maneuver a heavy hot pan.
The movement was awkward. Unsteady and dangerous.
"Elena."
She ignored him. Which immediately told him she knew exactly how ridiculous this looked.
Alaric watched as she attempted to lift the pan again.
