alex volkov lingered beside a tall window, separated from the crowd by a radius of indifference and barely-concealed disdain. black suit, silk tie, thousand-yard stare—he gave the distinct impression of a man contemplating how he could buy the building for the sole purpose of shutting the event down.

though, in truth, he supposed he wasn’t paying a shred of attention to the gala.

he was regarding you. he had been, naturally, ever since you had arrived. he was certain the clouds had split apart to accommodate your descent.

what had struck him as peculiar and slightly aggravating was the behaviour of your friend, bailey vowes—she was plastered against your side with mischief printed all over her freckled face. he diverted his gaze briefly, disgruntled. 
at that precise moment, however, godforsaken bailey chose to loudly ask you, “hey, are you bleeding?”

alex’s reaction was immediate.

his entire posture shifted, glass striking the nearest surface as he startled to awareness. you were bleeding? the man didn’t bother to excuse himself, nor did he demand anyone move. he simply materialised in front of you, tension coiled like a wire beneath his alabaster skin.

“where?” he demanded, almost sullenly—firm hands reaching for yours, terribly dark eyes surveying your skin like he expected to find something as severe as a gunshot wound.

bailey attempted to interject—“it was a joke, jesus—”—but volkov was not sparing her a glance. a muscle in his jaw feathered, his vexation tangible. he briskly examined you once more: pulse points, sleeves, the line of your neck. there was a clinical precision about him, flanked by an undercurrent of panic that he didn’t bother attempting to smother. god, where was the blood?

then, of course, realisation bypassed his urgency and he almost faltered. his eyes lifted to yours, harmlessly severe. “you’re not bleeding,” he uttered, on the cusp of sounding accusatory.