Page 3 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I cry, looking for a weak point to attack.
“Hey. Hey!”
A voice so familiar, my body locks up and loses all fight. The deep tone I used to sit at the top stairway and listen tell stories and laugh for hours. I’d know it anywhere. My eyes slowly pan up his wide chest, the tan throat peeking out of his flannel, the short bearded jaw, that full bottom lip, then those eyes.
I gasp, taking in the Hunter family trait gray-green hue surrounded by thick, envious lashes.
“West,” I whisper, tears welling at the weight that instantly dissolves from my body.
I can’t hold myself up. The crash comes quick. West curses, sweeping my body up into his arms.
“Fuck, Camille. What happened to you?” he asks, rushing somewhere in the back.
My head feels too heavy—hell, my entire body does. I sag against his body. Every ignored injury decides to make itself known with glaring attention. I shuck in a breath as West slowly sets me down on a couch. My eyes take in the space of an office. Small, cozy, warm.
My body trembles as I finally feel the cold from outside seeping in. West returns, draping a thick, wool throw blanket around my shoulders. He kneels in front of the couch and gently cups my face with both hands. One hand holds a wet washcloth against my temple, which at first touch, stings. I hiss at the sharp pain. I must have hit my head when the car spun.
The delicate way he handles me has a stream of tears running down my face. West’s normally charismatic, good-natured expression hardens in a way I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed growing up around my brother’s best friend.
“Who. Fucking. Did. This. To. You?” he growls.
CHAPTER TWO
WEST
My hands tremble with fury as I take in Camille’s injuries. The washcloth covers the gash bleeding down her face. Dirt and scratches line her cheeks, down her arms, and legs. Her shirt is practically scraps hanging off her body, torn in various places. Her bare legs are marked with blood splotches and cuts.
She’s practically naked. Her black bra and underwear in view, as all that’s left of her clothes is a long-sleeved button-down. And socks. Torn, bloody socks.
I release her face before I squeeze it in anger. Not at her, of course.
“Where are they? Who did this to you?” I ask, removing her socks with the utmost care. She flinches as fabric snags on torn skin.
She’s trembling under the thick wool I wrapped her in. I think shock is setting in. I hand her another towel to squeeze the rain out of her hair.
Camille Lane.My best friend’s little sister.
I haven’t seen her in years. She left Eden Ridge at eighteen for college. Since then, she’s visited her family for some holidays, but our paths kept missing each other.
Shit. Styx needs to be here.
I reach for my phone in my back pocket and start pulling up his contact.
“No,” her voice croaks.
Her eyes are wild, full of fear.
“Don’t call, Drew,” she pleads. I haven’t heard anyone call Styx by his real name in years, other than his mother.
Her vocals are raw, which means she’s been screaming. The rage boiling in my body has nowhere to go. My skin feels tight and itchy. I need to punch something. I pace a second, then face her.
“Why?”
Her eyes well, but she steadies herself, inhaling deeply.
“He can’t know.”
I count to ten and regulate my breath. Tried and true technique that’s saved me from releasing impulsive emotions I’ve feared would one day escape and cause havoc.
