Page 4 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
I walk slowly over and sit at the edge of the couch by her feet, which she pulled up on the soft, plush, dark maroon leather. She holds the cloth still at her face, clutching the blanket tightly around herself. Her knuckles are drained of color from how hard she’s holding the two ends together.
I channel the control I’ve honed, thanks to Styx, my best friend, the one who found me at my worst after my parents died.
“Camille.” I wait for her eyes. Her big, unique honey-hazel eyes have never held back any emotion that travels through her.
When I get them on me, my lungs stall. Fuck. She’s always been beautiful. When she turned sixteen, Styx and I were twenty-six and knew we’d have to keep every snot-nose fucker in check around her.
On her eighteenth birthday was the first time I noticed her beauty, not objectively, but as a man. Her leaving for college was a blessing in disguise. No way was I going to be attracted to someone so young. I kept her at a distance since.
Now, here she is, still way too young, but fuck, I can’t deny she’s grown into a captivatingly beautiful woman.
“You need medical attention,” I begin. She shakes her head rapidly in denial, but I continue. “I’m going to make you a deal, Nyx,” the nickname spilling easily from my lips. “If I agree not to tell your brother, my best friend, may I remind you, then you have to be honest with me. I need some answers. I need to know what happened and…”
When her brow furrows and that sinful mouth opens to protest, I raise my brows and persist. “You need to agree to medical attention. We can do so discretely, but I’m getting someone to tend to your wounds.”
Her back hits the couch with an exhale. That sharp jawline of hers clenches stubbornly. That has not changed with age, it seems. Doesn’t help that my amusement escapes with a grin, causing those hypnotic, warm eyes to narrow.
“Bossy as ever, Hunter,” she mumbles, still glaring.
I chuckle, which feels good after all the dark energy bouncing around in my system. I show her my phone.
“I’m calling a friend, who’s trained in first aid.”
“What friend?” she asks, clearing her throat.
I stand and get her some water from my water cooler, then sit back down beside her. She takes it, whispering a thanks and sipping slowly.
“Don’t fight me on this,” I start. “And don’t give me that look, Nyx.”
Her expression shifts so quickly from stubborn to curious. “Nyx? The Greek goddess of the night?”
Damn. I’m an idiot. Of course, she’s smart. She was always one step ahead of her brother in most arguments.
“I mean, it’s the dark hair,” I point up and down her long, loose, black as night shiny waves. “When did you get so much ink?”
Her right arm is a sleeve of monochromatic designs. The black silhouette of a pixie in the mix of designs by her forearm catches my eye. I’ve always seen her as just that since she was little, a dark pixie; cute, petite, and running around with bursts of energy.
Her left arm’s tattoos are focused below her elbow. The rest of her body looks bare of them, except for the large floral design at the top of her left thigh.
She looks over her arms before looking back at me, then shrugs. “I’ve worked at a tattoo studio all these years. Kind of hard not to get the itch for ink.” Her voice sounds better after drinking water.
I text my friend Nora, asking her to come with First Aid supplies and to be discreet about it. When I finish and lock my screen, Camille watches, brow raised, waiting. Better to wait till Nora gets here instead of telling her now.
“What happened, Camille?” I lower my voice, asking. Her entire energy shifts back to defensive, guarded. “I promise not to tell Styx, but that deal only applies if you tell me the truth.”
Everything on her heart-shaped face is small except those eyes and full, wide-set lips that she gnaws on, thinking. Sighing, she reaches over to set her cup on the floor.
“You promise?” she asks. “I’m serious, West. If my brother finds out, this could be far worse than either of us can imagine.”
The sound of my name on her lips was an unexpected shiver down my body until she finished her statement. Now, my body braces.
“I promise,” I barely get out from my tight set lips.
Those intelligent eyes search my face. “Okay,” she says softly. “I was driving back home. I packed everything up from Silver Lakes and was coming home when an MC rode up and surrounded my Jeep.”
My mind instantly fires scenarios, motives, faces I’ve seen from afar. “Black Feral?”
She stares as she wrestles to answer. “Yeah,” she whispers.
