"Sixteen hours."
Lost time. I look back, really seeing him. A tight black t-shirt strains across his chest, fabric clinging to granite muscle. Ink covers his arms—complex geometric patterns and skulls disappearing under his sleeves. Lines of tension etched around his eyes speak of exhaustion.
"Have you been here the whole time?"
"Yes."
Simple. Absolute.
He reaches out. Knuckles brush my forehead, checking my temperature. His skin feels rough and electric. A tremor ripples down my spine, settling low in my belly.
"Fever’s down," he murmurs. "Good."
"Tristan, I can’t stay here."
"You’re staying."
"People will be looking for me. My research team?—"
"They’ll think you’re hunkered down in a shelter. Or dead." He doesn't flinch. "When the storm breaks, I’ll make a call. Until then, you’re mine to take care of."
Mine.
The word hangs heavy in the air. Territory is everything to men like him. I occupy his space, wear his clothes, sleep in his bed.
"I need to use the bathroom."
Tristan stands. No bedpan. No crutches. He slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back.
"Wait—" My hands fly to his chest.
Beneath my palms, rock-hard pectorals feel warm and solid as a wall. The slow, steady thrum of his heart beats against my hand, calm and powerful against the racing flutter of my own pulse.
"Hold on."
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, his massive arms locking me against the heat of his chest. I wrap my arms around his neck, my face pressed into his shoulder where he smells of rain, grease, and raw male. My injured leg dangles, but he holds me so securely I feel like a part of him.
As he walks, the oversized hoodie rides up to my waist. He holds me high against his chest, one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, but my legs are spread wide around his narrow hips to accommodate my injury. The coarse, salt-stained denim of his jeans rubs rhythmically against my sensitive inner thighs and the soaking wet lips of my pussy with every heavy stride he takes. The maddening friction of his granite-hard quads moving against my soft flesh sends a jolt of electricity straight to my clit, which is already engorged and throbbing for him. I whimper into his neck, my juices staining the leather of his vest as the raw, alpha power of his movement vibrates through my core.
He feels it—I know he does—because his grip on my ass tightened, his thick fingers digging into my flesh as he claims every inch of my weight.
He carries me to a small, partitioned bathroom and sets me on the closed toilet lid. His hands stay on my waist, steadying me.
"Can you manage?" His voice drops an octave.
I look up. Static charges the air in the small room. He towers between my spread knees. If I lean forward an inch, my forehead would rest against his belt buckle.
"Yes." My voice squeaks. "But I need privacy."
He hesitates. His eyes trace my jaw, my lips. I hold my breath, certain he would refuse. Heat pulses through me at the thought of his eyes on me—possessive and unwavering.
"Don't lock the door." He steps back. "If I hear a thud, I’m coming in."
He leaves the door cracked.
I hoist my dead-weight leg, jaw locked tight as I navigate the small space. Every inch is a battle against the fracture. When I finish washing my hands, gripping the sink for support, I realized I can’t verify if I bled anywhere else without stripping. Not happening.
"Tristan?"
