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Gun raised, I throw open the door.
And come face-to-face with my reason.
Emily screams; it’s shorter and quieter than the last time.
Then, when she calms, she even smiles at me. What a smile it is; bright enough to make me want to shade my eyes, and stunning enough that it wipes away all those doubts I felt earlier. “We have to stop greeting each other like this.”
“What are you doing here, Emily?”
There’s a pause. Long and heated.
“I was thinking about you earlier… and I was hoping maybe I could come inside?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily
My body comes alive as he beckons me inside.
The door closes behind me with a whispered click, sealing us in a cocoon of palpable tension. The air feels thick, each breath heavy with unspoken words and mounting desire. Hunter's eyes, stormy and dark, hold mine as I step further into the room. The scent of him — earthy, raw, and undeniably male — intensifies with every step I take.
The crimson-streaked bandage on his chest that peeks out from beneath a partially undone flannel shirt, the stark white of the bandage now marred by blood, draws my eyes.
"You're hurt," I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He shrugs, but I see the flicker of pain in his eyes.
"It's nothing," he mutters.
I won't have it.
"Let me help," I say, guiding him towards the couch. He obeys without protest, sinking down into the cushions. “Lie back.”
He does, resting his head against the armrest, his wide eyes on me as I take my place on the couch.
With trembling hands, I reach for his shirt. The fabric is soft beneath my fingers as I lift it over his head, revealing the sculpted muscles of his torso. My breath catches at the sight — corrugated muscles glistening with sweat, accented with tattoos that are almost artful, the colors of his tattoos and the powerful strength a vivid contrast to the angry wound that mars his abdomen.
I peel the bandage back and trace a tentative finger around the edge of the cut, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. He winces.
“What happened?” I say. From the shape and cleanness of the wound, it’s clear it was a blade of some sort; I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some medical training at college as part of my degree, along with a few electives and some intensive first aid training.
"It’s just a scratch," he murmurs, but I can see the wince he tries to hide. My resolve hardens; I need to help him.
“This isn’t just a scratch. You need stitches.”
“Darn it,” he mutters, his eyes on Charlie. “Just let me rest. I’ll be fine.”
I place a hand on his chest, above his heart. Beneath my hand, I feel every beat of his life — with each second I touch him, his pulse races faster. “I’m helping you. This isn’t a discussion. Do you have a medical kit?”
He doesn’t hesitate. I get the sense that, touching him like this, being close to him like this, he couldn’t fight me if he wanted to.
“In my duffel. The brown one. It’s near the bottom of the bag.”
I find the duffel bag and rummage through it, fingers brushing against rough fabric and hard objects until I locate the medical kit. My pulse surges, matching the urgency I try to suppress. When I turn back to him, his eyes are dark, filled with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.
I kneel beside him, my breath catching as I open the kit and lay out the supplies. With each item I place beside me — antiseptic, needle, thread — the gravity of the situation deepens. But so does the pull between us.
My hands tremble slightly as I clean the wound. His muscles tense under my touch, but he remains silent, watching me with those stormy eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul and read every thought going through my mind. A momentary smile crosses his lips, and a rumble shakes his chest. The heat of his skin flares beneath my fingertips; it’s intoxicating.
