Suddenly the idea of dying has me wanting to live even more. He looks at me like I’m his everything. He means every word he’s telling me. I can feel it to my core.
He slowly stands and moves to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and a first-aid kit from a drawer. He crosses back, kneels again, and unscrews the cap, pressing the bottle into my hand.
“Drink this. It will take out the taste of blood and soot from the back of your throat.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with the Vultures. They always leave a nasty taste in your mouth after. Like their departing soul wants to give you one last thing to remember them by.”
I take my glasses off for a moment and rub at the bridge of my nose. “Morbid, but highly accurate.”
“Thank you.” I put my glasses back on and accept the water. It is cold and soothes my parched throat. It’s the first real thing I’ve tasted in months. It slides down my throat, washing away the smoke just like Beast said it would.
I gulp, then cough, and Beast’s hand comes to rest at the back of my neck, steadying me. He waits until I’ve caught my breath before opening the first-aid kit, laying out gauze and antiseptic, tape and ointment.
“Let me see,” he says quietly, brushing my hair away from my face. His fingers linger at my temple, tracing the bruise that blooms purple along my jaw. His touch is so gentle I want to cry.
I put the papers on the table by the vase. I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed, not after five months of being paraded half-naked in front of strangers. If anything, I crave the warmth of his hands, the way he treats every bruise and scrape as if they’re wounds he’s taken himself.
He cleans the cuts on my knees, his thumb feather-light as he wipes away blood and dirt. He picks up my hand and turns my arm this way and that, frowning at the raw skin left by the rope used on me.
“Fucking bastards,” he mutters, anger sharpening his jaw.
I watch him as he works at cleaning each scrape and cut. I take in his black hair cropped close to his skull, the thick bands of color winding down his arms, the muscles shifting beneath the tattoos. He’s so big, so alive, and for a second I wonder what scars he carries beneath all that strength.
He finishes with my legs and looks up, his gaze softening when he sees my face.
“My name’s Elias,” he says, voice gravel and all heat. “But everyone calls me Beast. You probably know that by now.”
He pushes between my knees and settles a warm touch on my waist. His hands are big, warm and serve to ground me. Fora moment, he just looks at me—really looks, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my face.
“Can I take my cut off and check the rest of you? I promise to be gentle.”
There is an energy about him that pulls me in as much as it makes me quake with the fear of being left drained of the last of my energy if I let him too close.
My rescuer watches me intently. His eyes stroke the sides of my face before dipping to touch my lips. I get the sense there’s something he wants to say but either he’s reconsidering it or this isn’t the time.
I place my hands over his and help him remove the vest. “I’m sorry I’m not wearing much. It wasn’t exactly an option.” And isn’t that some shit to apologize for?
He flicks my concerns away with a slight shrug and a shake of his head. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I pull my attention off the fact I’m in my panties and bra and focus on him. The way the tips of his fingers graze over my flesh.
He stops, sits back on his heels all the while staying fully within the space between my spread thighs.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’ve hunted for you for five months,” he says, words falling heavy between us. “I tore this city apart. Every lead always ended up as a dead end. I was starting to think…” He trails off, jaw tight, and then presses his forehead to my stomach, breathing deep.
“I thought I’d lose you before I ever got the chance to hold you.”
His confession unmoors something inside me. My hands find their way to his hair, fingers threading through the short, dark strands. I press my lips together, fighting the tremble that wants to take me apart.
“No one has ever cared so much about me. I can’t thank you enough. Was it Agent Montgomery? Did she ask you to help?”
He looks up, and in his eyes I see a hundred truths—relief, obsession, awe, a devotion that shouldn’t exist after so short a time but does, burning and wild.
“At first, and then you became my obsession.”
