Page 10 of Wanted

“Point you?” His eyes skate over me where I sit on the ground. “You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes trace the bruising and gash on my swollen lower lip and down.

“You’ve got blood on your… Is that a wedding dress?”

With my good arm, I yank the coat tighter around my middle. I narrow my eyes. “No.”

“Do you mind not being so fucking evasive and instead give me a straight answer about what you’re doing on my property in a dress with my dog, or do I need to call the sheriff?”

The dog leans closer into my side and buries its snout against my thigh.

I smirk despite gritting my teeth together. “I think it likes me more.”

“She does not,” he argues sharply. He settles his palms on his hips and stares down at me with a foreboding look.

Any earlier distress about my situation vanishes in the presence of a person who might be able to help, only to be replaced with a confidence lacking self-preservation.

“Don’t worry. I won’t steal your dog.”

He stretches his fingers and curls them again as if he wants to reach out and get her away from me. “Can you get up?”

I level him with a glare. “Yes.”

Proving to him that I’m not a liar winds up being much harder in practice. With my good hand planted in the cold dirt, I manage to rise into a quarter of a squat before my foot slips. He moves forward to help, grazing his fingers against my broken arm.

My scream shatters the air.

Nothing is flowery or feminine about the sound wretched from my lungs. My heart slams against my chest with the rush of agony accompanying his simple touch.

“Whoa.” The stranger drops onto his knees at my side as if the cold, wet ground is of no consequence to him. “Is it broken?”

A choked sob leaves my mouth, followed by a simple, “Yes.”

His brows snap together on his forehead. “And you knew this before you tried to get up?” Anger vibrates through his tone.

“I didn’t think it was necessary information to impart,” I bite out, though the sound is less tough than I’d like when I hiccup a sob at the end.

I swear he growls between his teeth.

He looks down and grasps the end of my dress in two hands.

Riiiiiiiiiiiip.

The tearing of my dress cuts through the air.

His brows furrow in concentration as he continues pulling until he’s removed the entire bottom edge of lace from my dress.

“What are you doing?” I bite out in shock. I’m less concerned about the ruined gown—it was covered in smears of dirt and blood anyway—and more worried about the way this brute just manhandled my clothing.

He says nothing as he works a knot into one end faster than I’ve ever seen.

“That’s a kinky party trick.”

Even my poorly timed joke doesn’t pull his attention from his hands. He twists the lace around with sure, deliberate movements.

His silver eyes snap to mine and once again, seconds pass between us.

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