Page 34 of Bear Naked Truth
She should go to Dorian. Let him see. Let him help. But instead, she curled tighter into herself, fingers clutching the hem of her sweater like armor.
She couldn’t. Not yet.
If she let him in now, there wouldn’t be a line to step back over. And she wasn’t ready to stop running. And her needing him was that step. So, she stayed put.
Not from ghosts. But from the man who might just be able to love her.
18
DORIAN
The attic had been restless again—floorboards groaning without reason, the temperature shifting like someone was pacing back and forth behind the walls. He’d gotten used to that kind of unease, but tonight, something had changed. There was a different kind of weight in the air, like the house was holding its breath.
Then he smelled blood.
Not much. Just enough for his instincts to rear their head.
He found Autumn curled up in one of the guest rooms on the second floor, her back against the door like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her arms were wrapped around herself, head tilted down, and her entire body was stiff with the kind of stillness that came from trying not to break.
The moment she looked up, his chest tightened with the need to comfort her.
Her eyes weren’t crying, but they were hollow. Tired. Distant.
And then he saw the blood.
His bear surged forward so fast it made his hands tremble.
“You’re hurt,” he said, already crouching beside her. “Why didn’t you come get me?”
“I didn’t—” She shook her head, the motion quick and frustrated. “It wasn’t that bad. I just needed… space.”
He didn’t argue. Not yet. Not when she looked like she was one touch away from unraveling completely.
“Let me see,” he said softly.
She hesitated, then slowly lifted the hem of her sweater. Four deep scratches marred the skin along her ribs, angry and red, already beginning to welt. He inhaled sharply, jaw tightening.
“Damn it, Autumn.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not. These look infected already,” he said, voice low, even.
Before she could protest, he stood and reached down. “Come on. Bathroom. Let me patch you up.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. But she took his hand anyway.
They moved slowly down the hall, her steps light but uneven. He didn’t miss the way she winced every time she shifted her weight or the tight way she held herself. Protective. Wary.
He led her into the master bathroom—newly remodeled, mostly functional—and started the tap in the clawfoot tub. Steam began to rise, curling through the air like lazy ghosts.
“I can handle this,” she said quietly, watching him pull a clean towel from the cabinet.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to help.”
That seemed to settle her.
While the tub filled, he grabbed the small tin of salve Missy had made him last fall after he’d stepped on a cursed nail. Smelled like peppermint and power. He set it on the edge of the tub along with a clean washcloth and a glass of water.
