EMMA
Bodhi carries me out of the lounge, ducking through the doorway and along the unfamiliar corridors before I can protest further. The minutes he’d been gone had felt like hours. Every distant gunshot made my heart seize, every crash and shout sending fresh waves of panic through me.
But then he’d appeared in the doorway, a sheen of sweat on his brow, a tear in his shirt edged with red, and his eyes found mine immediately. The relief on his face is raw and undisguised.
The image of Kozlov cowering behind that armchair, face grey with terror, is one I’ll treasure. For all his power, he’s still just a man. And the way Bodhi looked at him during their standoff, like he was contemplating squishing him like the annoying bug he is, sent a thrill through me that had nothing to do with fear.
Bodhi was magnificent.
I catch glimpses of the destruction as we pass. There are bullet holes in the walls, a shattered vase, a smear of blood on the marble that I force myself not to look at too closely.
Then we’re climbing stairs, Bodhi taking them two at a time like I add no burden whatsoever. His grip is possessively tight,his jaw set so hard that I can see the muscle jumping above his beard. A strange vibration beneath my hands grows stronger with every step.
“Are you growling?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes cut to mine, unreadable. “Does it bother you?”
I consider the question. The sound rumbling through him isn’t something I’ve heard before. I know that.
“No,” I say honestly. “It doesn’t.”
Emotion flits across his face. Relief, maybe. Or surprise. And the rumbling grows even louder.
“It should,” he mutters, but his grip on me gentles slightly, his thumb stroking absently against my thigh as he continues through the eerily quiet corridors.
We reach the blue wing, and I recognize the hallway leading to my room. Bodhi unlocks the door and kicks it open rather than setting me down. The brass handle bangs against the wall as he carries me inside, shouldering it shut behind us, and only then does he stop.
We stand in the middle of my room, the too-bright white of the security lights outside filtering through the partially open blinds, casting sharp lines across the pale carpet. He’s still holding me against his chest, his breathing ragged, his whole body vibrating with that low, continuous rumble. Not quite a growl, but close. It vibrates against my side where I’m pressed to him, and instead of frightening me, it makes me want to burrow closer.
“Bodhi.” My voice comes out as a whisper as I stroke my palm over his heart. “You can put me down.”
He doesn’t move. If anything, his arms tighten around me, his fingers pressing into my thigh and my back, holding me against him.
“I’m okay.” I promise, and slowly, carefully, he lowers me to the floor.
But he doesn’t step back.
Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me, his face now level with my chest. His hands come up to frame my hips, my waist, then slide up my sides with urgent purpose. He’s checking me, I realize. Running his palms over every inch, searching for injuries, for blood, for any sign that something got past him.
It starts frantic and desperate. His fingers pressing into my ribs, my arms, my shoulders, down my thighs. But as each touch confirms what I already told him, that I’m fine, I’m whole, I’m here, his movements begin to slow.
And change.
His palms smooth down my sides again, but this time, there’s something different in the touch. Less clinical. More deliberate. When his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts through my blouse, my breath catches, and I see his nostrils flare.
“I’m fine,” I whisper again, but my voice comes out breathy, unsteady. “You don’t need to check every inch.”
He doesn’t respond. His hands travel up my arms, fingertips trailing fire across my skin, and when he reaches my shoulders, he pauses, his thumbs stroking along my collarbones in slow circles.
I should still be scared. Minutes ago, men with guns were storming through the house. My body hasn’t caught up yet, adrenaline still buzzing through my veins, even as his touch steadies me. I don’t understand why my body feels like this, only that it does. Fear and the lingering arousal from the pantry are tangled up until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
He cups my face, tilting my head so he can examine my neck, my jaw, the hollow of my throat. His thumb traces the line of my pulse, and I know he can feel it pounding beneath my skin.
“Your heart’s racing,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “And you’re shaking.”
Warm palms slide over the goosebumps his touch leaves behind.
“I know.”
