Page 53 of Oathbreaker

I feel Hunter move around the kitchen, and with soft movements, he grabs several handfuls of paper towels before he grabs the broom to clean up the mess. When all is set to rights, I feel his heat as he stands near me at the island. I’m still looking at my foot, although I removed the ceramic quickly and the bleeding has already stopped.

He doesn’t respond to my question.

“Can I see?” His voice is low, cautious. I curl in on myself, ashamed that I’ve distanced myself from this remarkable man, this man I love. I dip my chin and his strong hands circle my ankle. Then he kneels in front of me.

The stress of the evening—the nightmare, the messages—rushes to the surface.

“I don’t think you need stitches,” he says. He’s already pulled ointment and a Band-Aid from the drawer, and in a few seconds, he has the wound cleaned and dressed.

Then, almost reverently, he kisses the sole of my foot.

“Hunter,” I say, finally looking at him. There are so many warring emotions in his gaze.

Sadness.

Regret.

Pity.

Love.

“I...” When I don’t fill the silence, he does it for me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, rubbing my foot and still kneeling in front of me.

“Something like that,” I say. He keeps rubbing my foot, then moves to my calf.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he says. He continues to kneel. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“It’s okay. You should be able to walk around your house without worrying about me.”

“One, I will always worry about you. It’s my job,” he says, giving a rueful smile. “And two, this is your house too.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he briefly chuckles. “This is not my house, Hunter, just like I’m not Mrs.Brigham.” My words have no heat to them, but it is the truth. I’m a visitor. An uncomfortable visitor who is here only because I don’t feel safe in my own home. And as for him telling people I’m his wife....

He squeezes my calf muscles, massaging the tense flesh, and I can’t help the groan that slips out.

“The latter can be changed very easily, baby.” He looks into my eyes. Even in the dim under-cabinet lighting, I can see the blue disappear as his irises expand. There isn’t a hint of joking in them. He is all seriousness.

I begin to pull my leg from his grasp in slow increments.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

I close my eyes because I can’t.

“We don’t have to be like that right now, Winter. I just...please stay with me. We can talk about whatever.”

I inhale deeply and force myself to open my eyes again.

His eyes plead for me to stay.

I want to. I so want to. But the thought of getting close to him chokes me.

I didn’t always feel like pushing away from him since the incident. Physically, at least. There were days when all I could do was cry and scream and rage, and the only remedy was Hunter Brigham’s touch.

But now, I feel dead inside. I feel like the rot from my soul will rub off on him somehow.

God, help me. I don’t see how to break through. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I’m avoiding Genevieve. Wading through the muck of all this shit...maybe it’s too late for me.

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