Page 185 of The Owner's Temptation

A dark, wet stain spreads low on the front of the jacket he gave me—just below my ribs. At first, I think it’s water. Or oil from the motorcycle.

But when I unclip the front and peel the material open, a sharp, cold shock crashes over me like a tidal wave.

Blood.

A deep red smears across my mesh bodysuit, just above my hip. I touch it. My fingers come away slick. Shaking, I do it again, pressing against the wet heat blooming through the thin fabric.

Lucian turns just as I sway.

“Sienna—”

I look up at him. My voice doesn’t work. I hold up my hand instead, stained red with blood.

His eyes go wide and everything tilts.

I think I’m dying.

I know it sounds dramatic, but there’s blood on my hand—a lot of blood—and I can’t remember where it came from or when it happened. My stomach feels cold, my fingers even colder, and my vision swims like I’m underwater.

Then he’s there.

Lucian’s hands are on me in an instant, firm but careful. I think I hear him praying—please, God. Please, devil. Please, someone.

His voice is hoarse. Wrecked.

“Let me look, baby. Let me see.”

He pulls the jacket off of me, and I see his eyes dart over every inch of me like he’s memorizing my body just in case. But then he exhales a breath so deep it shakes his chest.

“It’s not yours,” he says, his voice ragged. “It was on the jacket. It’s not yours.”

He says it again, over and over, holding my face in both hands now. His forehead presses against mine, and for the first time since the gunfire started, I can actually focus.

“You’re okay, Angel,” he murmurs, brushing my hair back. “You’re not shot. You’re okay.”

My knees finally give out, but he’s already holding me so tight it doesn’t matter. The sob tears out of me so fast, I don’t even feel it until I hear the broken sound echo in the bathroom tiles. Then I crumble.

I cry like a child. Like a woman who saw death up close. I cry for the fear, the confusion, the panic I buried to stay alive. I sob until I can’t breathe, and still Lucian holds me—shelters me—like he’ll never let go.

At some point, he undresses me. I don’t even remember when. All I know is the cold is gone, replaced by warmth and strong arms lifting me again.

He carries me into the bath, the water hot and perfect around us. I curl into his chest, my cheek against his skin, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. One hand strokes up and down my spine. His voice is a quiet hum of praise and reassurance.

“You’re safe now, Angel. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

My breathing starts to steady. The panic ebbs. The ache in my bones dulls beneath the water’s warmth and the safety of him.

But in its place, something else stirs.

Heat. Desire. A fire that spreads slowly but surely through every part of me as I become acutely aware of his arms, his chest, the feel of his skin under my fingers.

He doesn’t stop touching me. Doesn’t stop whispering, comforting, claiming me without even trying.

I tilt my head up and find his eyes already on mine. The look in them nearly undoes me.

Desperate. Tormented. Fiercely tender.

I kiss him before I can stop myself.

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