Page 16 of Hunted

So before he blew everything to hell, he was going to have one more shot at Mikey.

Chapter 8

As soon as Gunn left her, Michelangela closed the bathroom door and leaned briefly against it. There was no window in here, of course—with or without mesh. The bathroom door had no lock, but sure as shit there was one on the bedroom door.

She’d find out later how good it was. At least right now, she had some semblance of privacy.

Mikey pulled off her clothes and stepped under the hot water. Washing off days of blood and grime—and nasty water residue from her interrogation—should have felt great. But the more layers she washed away, the more she felt like her armor was washing away with it.

Everything that protected her.

So she stayed under the water, eyes closed, feeling like a coward but not wanting to face Gunn again, not wanting to feel all the things she’d buried over a year ago.

But finally the water began to run cool, and she reluctantly turned it off. Blood was still seeping from her upper arm where the bullet had grazed her, during the fight. She frowned at it. It should have stopped by now. Maybe it would once the food kicked in.

She wrung her hair out and pulled back the shower curtain—and froze. Gunn was standing in the bathroom doorway.

His gaze raked over her body, making heat flash through her.

She wanted to snatch the towel off the vanity and cover herself up, but that would make her look weak. Instead she made herself step casually out onto the linoleum, wearing nothing but her amulet.

“Way to perv on the naked prisoner,” she said. “Is seduction part of your nefarious scheme to get what you want out of me? Or have you sunk down to sexual assault?”

Again, he didn’t rise to the bait. One thing the last year had obviously taught him was self-control.

He said, “I want to take a look at that bullet wound of yours.” Belatedly, she noticed a first-aid kit in his hands. “I could smell the blood in the kitchen, and it shouldn’t still be bleeding. You really are in bad shape if your healing is that slow.”

“It’s fine,” she snapped. “Hand me that towel, would you? I’m dripping, here.”

He put the first-aid kit down on the vanity counter and picked up the folded towel sitting there. But instead of handing it over, he stepped forward and enveloped her in it, rubbing gently to dry her off.

That simple act made her knees suddenly go weak. Tears came to her eyes, and she dropped her gaze so he couldn’t see.

Damn the bastard. He knew just how to manipulate her—and that’s exactly what he was doing, she reminded herself. She’d been through hostage training. It was a standard tactic. Fear, then kindness, to make you think they’re on your side.

The problem was, it was working. She focused on not crying, not letting him see her weakness, standing rigid while his hands moved gently over her body.

Then he wrapped the towel around her chest and tucked in the end, his fingers grazing the tops of her breasts, his gaze lingering there.

She hated, hated, hated that he could still affect her so much. He didn’t show any sign of being aware of it, though, just sat her down on the toilet seat and crouched down next to her, examining the deep gouge in her shoulder. She couldn’t help giving a little hiss of pain as his fingers probed it, and he laid his hand over the wound, as if his palm could draw the ragged edges of flesh together and heal her.

Oddly, his touch did reduce the pain, but the wound still oozed blood. He was right, it shouldn’t still be bleeding—her shifter healing should have taken care of it by now.

But nothing about her body had felt right for a long time.

Not since him, a voice in the back of her head said, but she pushed it away. Gunnar Jorgenson did not get to have that much power over her.

Gunn opened the first aid kit, and cleaned the wound with disinfectant. Shifters didn’t typically get infections, but they healed faster without a lot of crap in their wounds. Then he pulled the edges of the wound together with butterfly bandages.

“There,” he said, smoothing down the last bandage. “All better.”

She couldn’t let him know how much his touch affected her. “If you try to kiss it, I’m going to punch you in the face again.”

He held her gaze for a minute, and then the corner of his mouth tilted in a half-grin. Fuck. Gunn never could resist a dare.

He bent his head and kissed her wound, his lips warm and soft and gentle. She shivered.

He waited, watching her eyes.