Page 54 of Citadel

Then I return his towel. “Thanks for letting me use it. Sorry it’s damp now.”

“I don’t give a damn about that.”

He’s been seated, but he stands up now. He’s a lot taller than me. A lot bigger in every way. He looms over me, his head tilted down to meet my eyes.

It feels like he’s going to say something. Do something. Kiss me.

He doesn’t.

He merely stalks over to the stream and strips off his shirt.

He’s been wearing a gray T-shirt all day with his camo pants, and he submerges it into the water to rinse it out and then wrings out the excess. He splashes water over his face, neck, arms like I did, and he also works on his chest.

He doesn’t take off his pants.

Watching him is an odd, visceral experience. The hard contours of his body are lit by the flickering firelight, creating a play of orange light and shadows on his skin. His body is every bit as developed as I remember from that night we had sex. Large biceps, tight abs, rippling muscles in his back and his shoulders.

I still want to touch them. Hold on to them. Every part of him.

Even at this most inappropriate time.

What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t have even the slightest glimmer of sex on my mind right now, not when Breanna is in danger the way she is.

By now my legs are dry enough that I shimmy back into my jeans. I hate sleeping in them, but it would be ridiculous to not wear my clothes if I’m sleeping outdoors and there are any number of threats around.

The night isn’t cool yet, so I don’t put back on my hoodie. My tank top got slightly damp from the water, but it’s already almost dry from the heat of the fire.

When Cole comes back toward the fire, he’s carrying his wet shirt. He stretches it out on a rock to dry.

He leans over to dig for something in his pack. I assume it might be another shirt, and I’m right. He pulls out a white sleeveless undershirt and pulls it on over his head in a quick move.

“Come here a minute,” he mutters, leaning over to check his pack again.

I do as he says by instinct. Not because I have any particular impulse to follow his instructions.

“Why?” I ask when I’m standing in arm’s distance of him.

“You’ve got a cut on the back of one shoulder.”

“Yeah. I’m kind of scraped up from falling when that guy shoved me.” Oddly, it feels like a lifetime ago—that fight on the old highway.

It’s barely been twelve hours.

His jaw ripples. His eyes narrow. The memory of that guy’s brutality makes him angry. He doesn’t put it into words though. Just mutters, “Yeah, but the cut behind your shoulder is deeper. It could get infected. I’ve got some stuff to put on it.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “Okay.”

I’m not foolish enough to object to using salve on an injury. Even minor skin infections can get bad without antibiotics. I’ve seen people die from them ever since Impact.

But the idea of Cole applying the salve from the tube he pulls out of his pack—the idea of him touching me like that—makes me gulp.

He doesn’t appear to notice or care about my sudden nervousness. He turns me around, moves aside the strap from my tank top, and rubs the salve into my skin around the cut.

It stings. More than I expect. I’d hardly noticed that cut all day because I had so many other things to focus on. But it’s deeper than I realized.

It’s stopped bleeding at least, since we don’t have any bandages with us.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding slightly shaky. My hands are shaky too. I tighten them into fists.

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