Page 50 of Untamed Sinner

The door's closed but it’s unlocked so I open it.

Mandy’s in the bed, tangled in sheets, her legs thrashing and her arms flailing.

Another sound—half whimper, half snarl—chills my blood. I lower the gun and stride to the bed. "Mandy."

Her eyes open, wild. Unfocused.

She moves before I can react—rolls off the bed, lands in a crouch, hand reaching for a weapon that isn't there.

"Mandy," I say again, quieter, keeping my distance so I don’t startle her more than she is. "It's Hendricks."

She blinks. Once. Twice.

I stay still. Don't move closer. Don't crowd her. She's not awake yet, not fully, and I know better than to touch someone in this state, particularly someone who’s been abused.

Her breathing is ragged, her shoulders heaving. Sweat dampens her hair, and her tank top clings to her skin. She’s wearing underwear, thank fuck—one less thing to worry about.

"You're at my house," I say, calm and factual. "You're safe. You’re with me."

Her eyes focus on me. The wildness recedes a little. "Hendricks?"

"Yeah."

She straightens slowly, her hand dropping from where it was reaching. She looks around the room like she's confirming my words.

Then she laughs, but it's a broken sound.

"Fuck," she mutters, dragging a hand through her hair. "Sorry. I⁠—"

She stops, then she shakes her head, using the bed to leverage herself off the floor. "I'm fine."

“You’re not.” I clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

"I said I'm fine." To prove it, she moves toward me, but there's something deliberate in the way she does it. Something calculated. Forced. Her hand lands on my chest. “Want me to show you how fine I am?”

I catch her wrist before she can slide her hand lower. "No."

Her eyes flash. "What?"

"That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" Her voice sharpens. "You came in here. You woke me up. Now you're standing in my room in the middle of the night, and you're telling me that’s not what you want?"

Oh, I fucking want it. She’s barely dressed, her nipples sharp under the cotton. I can smell her—sweaty and sexy—and it causes the predator in me to rise from where I usually have it buried.

My grip tightens on her wrist, but I quickly relax it. "I'm telling you I'm not going to let you use sex to avoid dealing with whatever the hell you just dreamed about."

She jerks her hand free. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze me."

I sigh. "I'm not."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

"Come here." I step closer again—slowly. Giving her time to move away if she wants.

She doesn’t. Frowning, she starts, "Hendricks⁠—"

"Come here," I repeat.