Page 121 of Hunted to Be Mine
“What is?” He glanced over, curious.
“Well, the last time I was naked with you, we were in better shape and doing much more interesting things.” I gestured withmy good hand. “Now I’m a walking bruise with one functional arm.”
He stepped closer. “May I help you?”
The question held more than logistics. His tone dipped to the level that always sent heat through me.
“Yes.”
He moved to the top button of my borrowed shirt. Methodical, gentle. His fingers barely brushed my skin as he worked his way down. The quiet intimacy lodged in my throat.
When he eased the fabric from my shoulders, his body went still. I followed his focus to the vast discoloration across my ribs, a violent purple-black stain spreading beneath the skin.
“Jesus.” His jaw tightened.
“It looks worse than it feels,” I lied, trying to ease it.
His gaze lifted, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t.”
He traced the edge of the mark with the lightest touch. Tenderness lived in his hands, while rage burned in his eyes. My chest tightened.
“Dresner will pay for this.” The words came tight, controlled.
“It was the stairs, not Dresner. Gravity’s the enemy here.” I aimed for lightness, but his expression didn’t move. “Hey. Look at me. I’m okay.”
No smile. He dropped to a knee to help with my pants. Another massive blotch colored my hip, and his face hardened.
“I should have broken character. I should have caught you.”
“Stop.” I slid my fingers into his hair, the silk of it soft against my palm. “I’m alive because of you. We both are.”
He pressed his mouth to the bruise on my hip—so gentle it made my throat tight. Warm breath on battered skin, steady hands bracing the backs of my thighs.
“I had to watch you fall,” he said against me. “Knowing what would happen and doing nothing.”
The raw guilt in his voice hit harder than any pain. It wasn’t just the injuries. He’d been forced to stand by to keep his cover while I fell. What had that cost him?
I tugged lightly at his hair, bringing his eyes to mine. “But you came for me after. That’s what matters.”
The self-reproach in his eyes didn’t vanish, but he gave a brief nod and rose. His fingers found the clasp of my bra, hesitating.
“Is this okay?”
“If you think I’m getting into that tub half-dressed, you’ve seriously misunderstood the concept of bathing.” I smiled to hide the sudden vulnerability.
His mouth curved as he unhooked it. I arched a brow.
“Impressive dexterity for someone who supposedly can’t remember his past.”
“Some skills stay with you.” His eyes darkened as he took me in.
The air became heavier. Despite the aches, heat pooled low under his frankly appreciative stare.
He knelt again, easing my underwear down. Naked except for the cast, I felt exposed—not by nudity, but by damage. Bruises painted my skin in purples and yellows. I tried to cover myself with my good arm and laughed to deflect it.
“I look like a medical textbook illustration titled ‘What Happens When You Fall Down Stairs.’ I just need arrows.”
Wolfe drew my arm away and studied me. I braced for clinical distance or pity. What I saw was hunger, plain and startling.
