Page 26 of Preacher

And then Preacher was on his knees on the hardwood in front of me, head bowed, one hand braced on the floor, breathing hard. Naked. Bleeding from a long, ugly slice across the meat of his shoulder that ran down toward his collarbone.

My eyes snapped to the ceiling so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “Oh my god.”

“Trent.”

“Holy fuck. You’re naked. Naked kind of naked.”

“Babe.” His voice was rougher than usual, scraped raw, like the shift had taken something out of his throat on the way through. “I’m not gonna apologize for the lack of pants.”

“Could you…” I counted the tiles on the ceiling, forcing myself not to outright gawk at his body. That would be rude. I wanted to be rude. “Could somebody… Crowbar! Bring him pants or a bed sheet! Bring him a washcloth. I don’t care!”

“Crowbar’s giving us a minute,” Preacher said, and there was something tired and amused in it. “Eyes on mine, Trent.”

Dragging my gaze up his body, I tried, I genuinely tried, not to drool over anything until they landed on his face.

He was watching me with the kind of patience that said he’d wait all night if he had to.

“You’re still naked,” I said.

“You’re very observant.”

“Where anyone can see you.”

“Still batting a thousand.”

“You were just a wolf.”

His smirked. “You’re tracking, sweetheart.”

Considering the size of the cut on his shoulder and the fact I’d just watched him rearrange his entire skeleton, I clamped down on the reaction and pointed at the wound.

“You’re bleeding on my clothes, sweetheart.”

Preacher glanced down at the smear of red across the thigh of my jeans like he hadn’t noticed. “Guess I am.”

I was not going to survive this man. Folding his jacket over the arm of the couch, I tried to stand, but my foot slipped. “Shoot. This isn’t working.”

“I got you.” He ignored the wound like it was a paper cut and offered me a hand.

The silver rings were gone, his knuckles scraped. I put my hand in his anyway, and he hauled me up like I weighed nothing, securing me against him when my knees became unsteady.

His chest was bare, and I was pressed against it, his skin warm and solid, smelling like the woods, copper, and him.

“Pants,” I said into his collarbone while glued to the problem. “Please. For my sanity. Pants.”

A low rumble moved through his chest under my cheek, and it took me a second to realize he was laughing. He was enjoying this way too much. “Okay, Trent.”

“And then you sit. And I look at that cut. And then we talk about Candyland.”

“Crowbar is rubbing off on you.”

He kept one arm around my waist and walked me backward down the hallway, slow enough that my legs could keep up. His blood was leaving a trail of small, dark coins on the hardwood behind us. I kept my eyes pointed firmly forward, or backward, through a doorway and the bedroom I’d woken up in.

Preacher eased me down onto the edge of the mattress and crossed to the dresser. I made a study of my own hands while drawers opened and closed. Cotton rustled. By the time I risked a glance, he was pulling a pair of soft black sweatpants over his hips, low on his waist, and reaching for a clean T-shirt.

“Don’t,” I said. “The shirt. Leave it. I need to see what I’m working with.”

His brow lifted, but he set the shirt aside without comment and turned to face me.