Page 68 of Corpse Roads

We head upstairs, where the distinct sound of Leighton’s snoring can be heard. I expect Hunter to take me back to my bedroom, but he bypasses it and heads to the other end of the hallway.

I’m carried into a dark room, assaulted by masculine scents. Hunter’s spicy aftershave, fresh linens, and the smell of rainfall from the open window. It’s intoxicating, the essences that make up his persona.

“How you didn’t wake Enzo up, I’ll never know,” he grumbles. “It’s a miracle he didn’t come down and shoot us both by accident.”

I try for a joke. “Maybe there is a God.”

Hunter’s chest rumbles with an almost laugh that doesn’t quite escape his lips. He steps into an en-suite, keeping the main light off and flicking on the mirror light instead.

It emanates a warm glow that reveals his neat, organised bathroom. It’s identical to mine, but every single bottle is stacked in regimented lines, the labels all facing forward.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You’re the one bleeding,” I point out.

Hunter lifts me onto the bathroom counter, next to the sink basin. He cocks a sculpted eyebrow at me.

“Look at your hands, Harlow.”

I glance down. The slices I felt from the broken mug were real, blood seeping down my arms in a warm, steady flow. I didn’t even notice it amidst the madness.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoes. “You did a good job there, didn’t you?”

The accusation in his voice grates against me.

“It’s not like I did this on purpose,” I argue back. “It all felt… real. Everything I was seeing and hearing.”

Hunter’s attention doesn’t waver from my face. “I can see that.”

Reaching under the sink, he pulls out a small metal box. Inside, there’s a basic first aid kit. I reluctantly hold out my hands, letting him clean the blood with a damp cotton pad.

He works in concentrated silence, cleaning and inspecting. My eyes begin to droop as the adrenaline pours out of me.

“Nearly done,” Hunter whispers. “Rest on my shoulder if you need to.”

I force my eyes back open. “No. I need to clean you up.”

“I’m a big boy, Harlow. I can take care of myself.”

“But… you shouldn’t have to.”

He halts, a bloodied cotton pad in hand. The air between us feels weird—almost like it’s charged with electricity. I can feel the tension gliding across my sensitised skin.

Hunter’s lips are parted, still stained with blood, his breath escaping in a low hiss. Almost in slow motion, his thumb skates along my jawline, up to my cheek, and down to the slope of my bottom lip.

I don’t dare move as he traces it with a look of confusion, his eyes flitting up and down in rapid succession.

“I take care of myself,” he repeats, his brows furrowed.

“Because there’s no one else to do it?”

His head is moving closer, eating up the pitiful distance between us. My legs are parted, his body eased between them as he cleans me up. I can feel the heat of his pelvis against my thighs.

My legs tighten without my permission, squeezing his frame closer. I don’t even realise I’m doing it until a low growl emanates from his chest.

“Harlow.”

---