Page 28 of The Huntress and Her Hound

“Sometimes.” I gently press my thumb down on her bottom lip, and at first, she tenses, but then parts her lips for me. Her eyes stay trained on my face as I peer inside, seeing the gash on her inner cheek. “It’s not all that bad.”

I reach for the linen closet behind her, and she flinches. I catch my breath, glancing down at her. She’s watching me carefully with wide eyes, almost appearing frightened.

“Just getting something for you to apply pressure with,” I explain, grabbing a washcloth from the stack. “You need to press this to the wound inside of your mouth for a solid fifteen minutes. It should stop the bleeding. You must’ve cut your mouth when you got hit in the face.”

She doesn’t argue with me as I help her line it up on the wound. My fingers guide hers to the right place, and it takes everything I have to focus on the task at hand—and not the fact she’s half-naked or that her skin is so soft. I haven’t taken advantage of the view, and with the way she’s watching me like a hawk, I won’t.

I won’t be that guy. My fingers retreat from the sizzling warmth of hers.

“I won’t tell Henry about this,” I say with a sigh as I start cleaning up, wondering just how far the asshole from the club got with her. I hope he didn’t get his dick wet. I hope he choked on his own tongue and died.

I’ll ruin him. I’ll figure out who he is, and I’ll fucking explode his life.

I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again. You don’t have to murder someone to destroy them. And when I’m finished, whoever did it will wish they were dead.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I pick up Cher’s jeans and top, spotting the rip down the front. I shut my eyes, seeing red for a moment. I want to interrogate her. I want to know everything that happened so I can do something about it right now. But I can’t do that. She needs to keep applying pressure.

Cher leans against the counter as I pick it all up, tossing the clothes straight into the trash. Her brows raise.

I shrug at her. “You’re not keeping these. I’ll buy you replacements.” I grab for the soiled towel and clean up the rest of the blood, rinsing the pink watery mixture down the sink. “Fucking asshole.”

She squeaks.

I look up at her. And I realize she’s trying not to laugh. “What’s so funny?” Her shoulders bob up and down. “Right, you can’t talk.” I finish wiping down the counter, trying to ignore her inked skin inches from mine. She’s beautiful and soft, curvy...and broken.

I could put her back together.

Pursing my lips, I toss the notion out with the dirty towel. I straighten up, catching sight of my shirtless self in the mirror. There’s no ink on my skin. Nothing to set me apart from any other guy. My hair is a wreck from restless sleep and my black sweatpants hang off my hips.

Though, I am glad I’ve been hitting the gym. I’ve always been self-conscious of my overly lanky frame, but it’s transformed in the last year with heavy weights and loads of protein. I rake my fingers through my hair...

And catch Cher’s eyes running over me in a way that heats up my core.

Ignore it.

I blow out a heavy sigh and glance down at the clock situated in the corner. “Time’s almost up.”

She nods. Like a good girl. My cock stirs to life, and my mind threatens to let loose with fantasy. I imagine her soft moans in my ear. I’d want to hear her voice the whole time.

“Done?” Cher mutters in a hardly coherent jumble.

I turn my attention back to her, and approach, reaching for her hand inside of her mouth. She stumbles backward suddenly, startled by my advance.

“Easy,” I reach for her other arm, catching her elbow and steadying her. “Don’t need any more bruises. Henry’s going to have questions.” She nods but remains stiff in my grip. I brush my fingers across her skin, guiding hers to remove the blood-soaked towel. Much to my relief, the bleeding has stopped. “You’ll still have to be careful with it.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and for the first time, she’s not malicious. She’s also not fake. She’s just...her. Beautifully scarred her.

And it makes my cock go rigid, moving everything inside of me.

“I’m just going to throw this away,” I choke out, removing the washcloth from her hand. “I don’t know what kind of mess you got into, but it’s better to just discard evidence.”

“You act like I killed someone.” Her words catch me off guard, the tone off kilter once again.

I toss the towel into the trash and meet her gaze. “Did you?”

“No,” she answers flatly.

Shaking my head, I grab the bag from the trashcan. “Good, then the only one who could press charges is you.”

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