"Let me."
Gripping the hem, I lift it slowly. She raises her arms, wincing as the movement pulls her ribs. I pull the fabric over her head and toss it aside.
She is breathtaking.
She is pale, her skin marked with the violent blooms of purple and blue from her fall—bruises on her shoulder, a jagged scrape along her collarbone. I hate the marks. I want to lick them until they disappear, replaced by the red heat of my own brands.
"This stays on," she says quickly, her hands crossing over the flimsy pink lace of her bra.
"Fine," I rumble, though the lie tastes like copper. I’m going to see every inch of her before the storm breaks.
Taking the warm cloth, I start with her face, watching her eyelids flutter as the heat hits her skin. I move the cloth down the column of her neck, scrubbing away the salt of her fevered sweat. I move over her shoulders, tracing the bruises with the steaming rag. I clean her arms and her palms, my eyes fixed on the way the heavy hoodie hangs open, exposing the way her tits strain against the thin lace, the dark circles of her nipples already hard and tempting.
I wash each of her fingers with a slow, grinding focus, letting her feel the weight of my presence. I'm not just cleaning her; I'm erasing the mountain and replacing it with the scent of my soap and the heat of my hands. Her hand relaxes in mine, small and soft against my calloused, scarred palm. The contrast jars me. I am destruction; she is creation.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispers, eyes still closed.
"Doing what?"
"Taking care of me. You barely know me. You’re... you’re scary, Tristan. Everyone in town says the Gunnars are dangerous. But you..." She opens her eyes, searching my face. "You handle me like glass."
My hand freezes on her wrist. I look at her. Really look at her. "Maybe you are."
"Why?" she breathes.
"Because you're here." My voice is a low rumble, vibrating in my chest. "Because when I saw you lying on those rocks, somethingin me snapped. You’re not just a stray I picked up, Alexandria. You’re my responsibility now."
"Responsibility," she echoes, her voice dropping an octave.
"Don't twist it," I warn. Dropping the cloth into the basin, I lean closer. "I take care of what’s mine."
Her breath hitches. Pupils dilate, swallowing the hazel of her irises. "Yours?"
"You think I’d let anyone else touch you right now?" I ask, my voice dropping to a predatory growl. "You think I’d let a doctor put his hands on your skin? You think I’d let Marcus or anyone else carry your weight?"
Her gaze remains locked on mine, trapped in my orbit. "No."
"Exactly."
I retrieve the cloth, wring it out again, and move to her chest. I wipe the skin above the lace of her bra, careful of the bruises. Then, boldly, I hook my finger under the pink silk strap and push it aside, exposing the pale, unblemished curve of her upper breast to the firelight. My thumb brushes the pulse point at the base of her throat. It’s hammering. Rabbit-fast.
"You’re afraid," I state.
"Not of you," she whispers.
"You should be."
"I’m not." She lifts her hand, fingers hovering before touching my face. Her fingertips graze the rough stubble on my jaw. "You saved me. You carried me for miles. You gave me your bed."
"That doesn't make me a hero, Allie. It makes me territorial."
She traces the line of my jaw, her touch feather-light, searing my skin. "Maybe I like that."
The admission snaps the last thread of my restraint.
I catch her wrist, stopping her hand. My grip is firm, encompassing. I lean in, invading her space until my face is inches from hers. Heat radiates off her. I smell the crushed wildflowers of the ridge, the salt of her sweat, and the heavy, musk-sweet tang of her pussy getting drenched for me.
"Be careful," I warn, eyes locked on her mouth. Her lips are parted, pink and swollen. "You’re high on painkillers and adrenaline. You don’t know what you’re saying."
