Page 51 of Hunted to the Altar
“You’re hurt,” I breathed, helping him toward the bed.
“You never listen,” he rasped, a faint smirk ghosting his lips even as pain etched lines into his face.
“Not when it comes to you,” I snapped, already grabbing the medical kit from the cabinet by the bed. Samuel always kept one nearby—of course he did.
He let out a shaky breath. “Alright. But only because I don’t have the energy to fight you.”
I peeled away his shirt and hissed at the sight of torn skin and bruised ribs.
“Tell me what to do,” I whispered.
His hand curled around mine. “First, clean it. Press harder.”
I obeyed, even as my hands trembled.
“Don’t hesitate,” he growled through clenched teeth. “It won’t break me, Nina. But hesitation could.”
Swallowing hard, I pressed more firmly, feeling the heat of him beneath my fingertips, the ridges of old scars that painted his skin like an artist’s cruel masterpiece. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into my touch, letting me feel the weight of his trust.
"Now the antiseptic," he instructed, his voice gravelly. I reached for the bottle with trembling fingers, unscrewing the cap as he watched me. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down my spine. "Pour it slowly. The sting is inevitable."
He was right. The second the liquid made contact, he exhaled sharply, the tendons in his neck tensing. My hands lingered, hovering just above his wound, as if I could take away the pain through sheer will.
"You’re doing good, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dipping into something darker, richer. His free hand slid up my arm, fingers trailing my skin in a way that sent a pulse of warmth straight through me. "Now, wrap it. Tight, but not so tight it cuts off circulation."
My breath hitched as I followed his instructions, looping the bandage carefully around his torso. Each pass brought me closer to him, my arms brushing against his skin, my face inches from his. The scent of blood and Samuel filled my senses, something raw and intoxicating, something I would never be able to forget.
When I was done, I smoothed my palm over the bandage, making sure it was secure. His fingers curled around my wrist, stopping me.
"You were made for this," he murmured, his lips ghosting along my jawline, his breath warm and dangerous. "For me."
A shudder ran through me as he pulled me forward, closing the space between us. His lips met mine with the same intensityas his promises—unyielding, consuming, possessive. His hands found my waist, dragging me into his lap, his wounded body be damned. I gasped, but he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss as if he needed this as much as air.
"You take care of me," he whispered against my lips, "but you don’t even realize, do you? That every time you touch me, I come undone."
My fingers threaded through his hair, my body molding against his, and for the first time since I had met him, I realized something terrifyingly true.
I didn’t just want to be his. I already was.
Samuel’s hands slid up my back, pressing me closer as the kiss deepened, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before I parted for him. He tasted like iron and something darker, something unmistakably him.
I no longer fought against the inevitable. I wanted this. I wanted him. I pressed my palms against his bare chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my fingertips. The world outside, the blood staining his skin, the pain in his ribs—none of it mattered in this moment.
"You’re mine, Nina," he rasped against my lips, his voice raw. "Say it."
I swallowed, my body trembling in his grasp. "I’m yours, Samuel."
His chest rose sharply beneath my touch, and the satisfaction in his eyes burned straight through me. He kissed me again, slower this time, as if savoring the taste of my surrender. His fingers traced my jaw, down the column of my throat, his touch both possessive and reverent.
"Good girl," he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. "Now, let me show you just how much that means to me."
Samuel’s lips crashed into mine with a hunger that set my entire body ablaze. He pulled me against him despite the wound, as if the pain was secondary to the need coursingbetween us. His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging me closer, deepening the kiss until all I could feel, all I could breathe, was him.
A small sound escaped my throat, and he groaned in response, his grip on my waist tightening. His kiss was possessive, desperate, as if he was branding me, as if he wanted to make sure I understood that this moment belonged to us, irrevocably.
I surrendered, my hands sliding over his chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath my fingertips. He shuddered as I traced over the bandage, the heat of his body merging with mine, the electricity between us undeniable. I should have been more careful, more mindful of his injury, but Samuel didn’t seem to care. He kissed me like I was the very air he needed to breathe, like letting me go would tear him apart.
His tongue swept against mine, coaxing, claiming, unraveling me piece by piece. Every touch, every stroke of his hands against my skin sent liquid fire through my veins. He wasn’t just kissing me; he was consuming me, stripping me of the last remnants of hesitation.
