Page 42 of Torin

Lace. Lots of it.

I laugh. “Oh dear.”

“That’s my brother’s mate’s underwear.”

“I’m aware.”

He shuts the drawer and opens the one beneath it.

“Swimsuits.”

There are several bikinis and a couple of one-pieces folded inside. Gingerly, I pick up a dark green bikini and hold it against myself. “This should work.”

A floorboard creaks in the hallway.

Torin looks toward the door.

A second later, a man appears in the doorway.

Well. Apparently, I spoke too soon about the place not being bear-y enough. He’s huge and barefoot, with long dark hair hanging in matted ropes around his shoulders and a beard in much the same condition. The only thing he’s wearing is a piece of rough brown fabric wrapped around his hips and tied at one side. Guess I’d describe it as a loincloth.

His gaze lands on me. And he stops dead.

For a second, he just stares. Then his eyes drop to the bruise on my jaw before snapping across to Torin.

“Orson,” Torin says.

There’s a warning in his voice.

Orson looks back at me.

“Hi,” I say.

He grunts something that might be a greeting.

“This is Hannah,” Torin says. “Hannah, Orson.”

Orson’s eyes settle on the bruise along my jaw again.

“You staying here?” he asks.

“No. At a cabin a few miles away.”

He nods once.

I glance at Torin. He’s watching his brother closely.

“We’re heading to the lake,” Torin says.

“North bank’s no good. Couple males came through this morning.”

“Clan?”

“Dunno.”

Orson turns to leave, then looks back at me once more. At my face, specifically.

Something about his expression bothers me.