Page 120 of Hunted to Be Mine
I let out a breath. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Next time, try a rescue plan that isn’t suicidal.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“That’s not a promise.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
I exhaled, drained by the whiplash of it all. The crash hit—escape, confession, everything. My limbs felt weighted.
“You know,” I said, trying for light, “in the movies this is where you’d sweep me off my feet, throw me on that bed, and ravish me until morning.” I lifted my cast and winced when my ribs complained. “Given I’m one giant bruise with plaster jewelry, maybe we try the gentle cut this time?”
Warm amusement eased the intensity in his face. “The gentle version.”
“You know—the one without acrobatics or furniture casualties.” I gave him a tired smile. “No guarantees I won’t fall asleep on you. These pills mean business.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “We should postpone the circus entirely.”
“Circus?” I raised a brow. “I prefer ‘enthusiastic appreciation of anatomy.’”
“Very enthusiastic.” His eyes darkened for a breath before he stood. “But you need rest.”
“Rest is boring,” I complained, eyelids heavier by the second.
“Being unconscious or drugged isn’t rest.” He helped me up with careful hands. Heat from his palm at my lower back sent sparks along nerves I thought were done for the day.
“Details.” I leaned into him, not pretending otherwise. “Fine. If I can’t have my wicked way with you, what’s the alternative?”
He guided me toward the bathroom. “How about I run you a bath?”
“A bath?” The thought of warm water loosening every ache made me nearly groan. “Yes. Though the cast complicates things.”
“I’ll wrap it.” His tone left no room for argument. “And I’ll help you in and out.”
My mouth curved, impossible to stop. “Exactly how much help are we talking about?”
His gaze met mine, heat banked and steady. “As much as you need.”
“Dangerous offer.” My voice came out lower than I intended.
“For you,” he said, opening the door. “I can handle dangerous.”
Chapter 28
Selina
I followed Wolfe into the bathroom where a tub sat under the window. Steam rose, fogging the glass and turning the small room into a private cocoon, shut off from the snowy wilderness outside.
“Look at that,” I said. “It’s practically begging for a broken woman to collapse dramatically into it.”
He tested the temperature with his palm, his back to me. Moisture had already dampened his hair at the temples, taking the edge off his usual sharp lines.
“Need to wrap this first.” He reached for a plastic bag and tape on the counter.
I stared at my cast, suddenly aware of how helpless I felt. “So. This is awkward.”
