“I can’t promise this won’t hurt.”
Chapter 4
FIONA
Iflinch as antiseptic is pressed to my head wound, but I don’t fuss.
“I’m going to cut away hair from the wound so I can apply liquid sutures. I promise I won’t take much.”
I nod, enduring his pokes and prods as he works, thankful I’m alive and not being tortured like Madam Levy.
“I’m going to treat the cut below your ear lobe now. It might sting a little.”
I tense in anticipation, but the discomfort is mild.
“I need you to remove the blanket,” Hunter says, his tone deadpan.
“So you can fuck me?” I scoff.
“So I can treat your wounds.”
He’s not like the other men I’ve dealt with. Maybe the world of the dead broke him, but I have a feeling he’s been like this for a long time.
Perhaps the apocalypse freed him from the restraints of polite society.
At least someone is living their best life.
Annoyed, he says, “If I’d wanted to fuck you, you’d be good and fucked.”
I arc a brow. “So you don’t want to fuck me?”
“I want to tend to your wounds, and you’re being difficult.”
I notice that he didn’t answer my question, but I decide not to push the matter, because I don’t know if I can handle his response.
“You are a piece of work.” I pull down the blanket, feeling unashamed of my nudity.
He searches my body, applying ointment to my many wounds, and while his gaze roves everywhere, it never lingers too long in one specific place. He barely registers my nipples, which are standing at attention, or what’s between my legs. Which is…curious.
“I’ll bandage the injuries after your bath.”
My stomach rumbles. “Do you have something I could eat?”
“Jerky, canned fruit. I can make roasted pigeon later, but it’ll take a while to cook.”
“I’d love some fruit.”
He grabs me a can of peaches, which I eat so fast, I nearly choke. When I’m done, he hands me an energy bar.
I may not know what to make of Hunter, but I appreciate that he’s a good host. Hopefully, it’s not because he wants to sell me later.
“I have a garden on the roof, so I can fix up a good dinner. I just figured you needed something quick.”
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
“Follow me and I’ll draw you a bath.”
I brighten at the prospect of a tub full of warm water, which I haven’t had since before the apocalypse. When I was on Salem Street, my baths were ice cold because they said I had to earn warmth.
