Page 73 of The Woman in the Hollow
I stripped out of my suit again, changing into the fresh gym clothes still in the dryer, then started on the bike to loosen up before moving over to the strength training.
It was my favorite way to work out— the burn in the muscles, the shaking, the knowledge that I was making myself stronger with each rep.
But it wasn’t quite clearing my mind—or the stagnant energy I knew would go right to my dick if I let it—the way I needed it to.
With a sigh, I made my way to the treadmill.
I wasn’t a runner.
I wasn’t someone who did it out of the love of the game.
I did it because cardio was necessary. But also because, if you could make yourself suffer through the first awful ten or fifteen minutes, the runner’s high set in, making it all worth it.
Normally, I’d crank up some music, drown out my own inner thoughts until the endorphins did it for me. But I was trying to listen for any issues upstairs.
That said, the more I cranked up the speed, the louder my footsteps got on the belt.
And I had no idea Hazel had even woken up until she was standing at the base of the steps in my shirt, hair bed-messy, a pillow crease in her cheek, and watching me with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes that immediately undid all of the exercise I’d just done to try to ease the desire I felt for her.
Shit.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hazel
There was a moment of panic.
Waking up in pain in a strange room in someone else’s clothes would do that to a girl.
It took a few seconds for it all to come flooding back—the search for the body, the chase, the attack, the pain, the rescue, the caretaking, then drifting off to sleep with a notable throbbing between my legs because Dante’s damn bed smelled like him.
I sat up slowly, noting the random aches and pains in my body, then reached for the remote to check the time.
Just after one. Judging by the sliver of light slicing through the gap in the curtains, I figured that was in the afternoon, not night.
I’d only slept for a few hours, but I knew from the slurry of thoughts racing around my mind that there would be no going back to sleep anytime soon.
So with that, I climbed out of bed. My thighs ached like that one time a boyfriend dragged me on a hike I’d been wholly untrained for, leaving me with bleeding toenails, chafed thighs, and too sore to walk anywhere for a full two days afterward. I’dactually wheeled around my house on my desk chair just to get food and go to the bathroom.
With no rolling chair in sight, I granny-walked my way to the bathroom.
“Of course it’s perfect,” I grumbled as I moved inside, finding that same rustic, warm feel the rest of the house had. Stone walls, wooden cabinets and ceiling, a soaking tub big enough for Dante’s giant body, and a walk-in shower niche that was set in deep enough that it didn’t require doors.
I had the sudden urge to strip naked and climb into a too-hot tub to see if I could soothe the soreness in my muscles.
The wraps on my hands were the only thing holding me back. And if I was still around later, I might seriously consider asking Dante if he could redo my dressings after I had a bath.
As it was, I tried to finger-comb my hair and used a wet washcloth to do a quick whore’s bath because I still felt sticky and gritty from all the running and crawling and such.
When I was done with that, I made my way down the stairs. Did I move at a glacial pace? Yes. But, hey, I got there.
The coffee pot had turned itself off in the kitchen, but the liquid was still warm enough to make a cup. I swore I could feel it bringing me back to life a bit with each sip as I listened to this strange, steady, thumping sound coming from below me.
I moved closer to the door of the kitchen, listening, wondering if maybe it was the washing machine knocking around.
Worried about it, I inched open the door, listened for a second, then made my way down the steps.
It wasn’t until I was at the bottom that I could see into the basement.
