Page 117 of Hounded
His mouth pulled to one side, clearly uncertain as he spoke. “If you’re a dog, does that mean you have an owner?”
I stiffened at the question. “Yes.”
Indy nodded slowly. “Are they nice?”
“… No.”
Indy’s expression flickered, torn between a question and sinking sadness. I wanted to hold him, comfort him. I got the feeling he wanted to do the same.
“Is that who… how this happened?” His gaze dropped to my torso, lined and dotted with evidence of injuries long healed. The marks varied from the puckered circles of Abernathy’s bullets to long, swiping slices from Whitney’s saber. Around my back, there were more, including the recently added puncture mark from Abigail’s dagger.
This wasn’t the side of me I wanted him to know. He always did, though. It happened in every life, and eachtime I felt myself falling lower in his estimation.
Not invulnerable. Not invincible. Not strong enough to save him.
“Your owner,” Indy continued, driving that point uncomfortably home. “Is that where you go for ‘work’? Where you were before tonight?”
I nodded mutely.
“And they hurt you?” He looked so wounded that I would have thought the injuries were his. When he stretched out his hand, I didn’t pull back even when his fingertips brushed the jagged scar that raked across the left side of my ribs.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I muttered.
Indy’s gaze met mine as he placed his other palm flat against my stomach. His touch was warm and welcome, but I couldn’t stand the sympathy on his face.
“You shouldn’t have tohandleit,” he said. “Not alone—”
“Indy.” I grabbed his hands and held them in the space between us. “It’s over now. I’m not going back—”
“Clearly, you think it’s your job to protect me.” Indy’s features turned stern. “But who takes care of you?”
“You do, Doll,” I replied. “You take good care of me.”
His blush from earlier returned in force. He pulled free of me and scrubbed his hand over his scalp like he was chasing my touch.
“Well, um,” he began. “Can I take care of you now?” He nodded to the razor and can of shaving cream on the counter. “I could help with that. And your hair.”
I scoffed. “I can shave my own face.”
“Sure, you can.” Indy shrugged. “OrIcan. I want to.”
Allopreening, was it? Between mated pairs. Because I was his mate, and he was mine.
I tipped my hand permissively toward the shaving supplies.
Indy grinned and I went to sit on the closed toilet lid. He wet a hand towel in the sink then came over with the shaving cream and razor. Hesitating before me, he seemed to debate with himself before deciding to swing his leg around and perch on my knees.
He daubed the steaming towel against my cheeks, then chased it with a layer of thick, foamy cream. I wasn’t sure where to look or what to do with my hands besides sit on them while he set to work.
For someone who didn’t need to shave often, Indy took to the task with expertise. He directed my head from one side to the other with gentle touches, then tipped my chin back to slide the razor down the long stretch of my throat.
Somewhere in the midst of it, my calm became decidedly less so. It was Indy’s proximity. His fingers near my lips. His painted nails grazing my Adam’s apple as I swallowed.
He shifted on my legs, wiggling his ass in a way that made my cock jerk. I gulped again and forced my attention toward a gap in the wooden floorboards.
Indy wiped the residual shaving cream from my face. The job was done, but he stayed in my lap, inches away, twisting the damp towel between his hands.
“Loren…” He squirmed a bit more, looking at everything but me before speaking at last. “I’ll be your friend. Just your friend if that’s what you want.”
