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She shivered.

It was…intimate, what he was doing. Kissing her scar. And she should be pulling away. Only she wasn’t.

“You see him, when he comes at you with the knife. When you’re about to kick him in the knees. You see him.”

“Yes.” A whisper.

“Is that when you see the mask he’s wearing?”

“Cheap plastic.” Her fingers curled. “I-I…yes. I saw it.”

“Do you see his hair?”

She swallowed. “Black cap on his head. Black gloves on his fingers.”

“Nate was found wearing black gloves. Your blood and the blood of two other vics was discovered on the gloves.”

A nod.

“When you saw the man in the mask, did he have Nate’s eyes?”

A bitter laugh escaped her. Though there was nothing funny about the situation. There never had been. “Do you think I haven’t been asked this question before? By the cops? The prosecutors? By shrinks? I’ve had one psychiatrist who even tried to hypnotize me and walk me back through that night, moment by moment. It didn’t help.” She pulled her arm from him. “I didn’t see his eyes. I saw the mask. The cap. The knife coming at me. Everything was happening so fast.” She squared her shoulders. “I should get back in bed.”

He backed away. Eased out of the bathroom.

She practically ran from the bathroom and slipped into the bed. Pulled the sheets up. “Will you turn out the overhead light? When you walk out?”

Hunter studied her with his hard expression. “Sure you don’t want me to leave it on?”

“I have a night light.” Like that wasn’t another embarrassing confession to make. But, whatever. Not like she was the only person in the world who preferred not to sleep in total darkness. With her past, she hated total darkness, period. Too many bad things could hide and wait in the dark. “Can’t sleep with full lights on. Believe me, I have tried.” One hand pointed to the left. To the plug-in night light near her baseboard. “It gives me soft illumination. I’ll be fine. Really.”

Instead of leaving, he walked around the bed.

Big, strong, dangerous…

And covered in scars.

She’d been able to see them in the bathroom. Thick ridges along his skin. Slices. Jagged lines. Then…small spots. Raised marks that were gathered tightly together on his right side.

“Knife.” His fingers slid over some of the slices. “Bullets.” His knuckles hit two scars like they didn’t matter. “Shrapnel.” His right side.

So much pain. How had he survived it all? “Hunter?”

“Didn’t exactly walk away. Got my ass dragged out. Sometimes we all need a little help, don’t we?”

She wanted to reach out and touch him. To kiss his scars. To take his pain away. “I am so sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do it. Isn’t that what you told me before?”

When he’d said how sorry he was about what had happened to her. Yes, she had told him that. Mostly because she hadn’t wanted his pity. Plenty of people gave her pity, and it made her feel like crap. A constant victim. She hadn’t wanted Hunter to see her as a victim.

Her hands fisted around the sheet. “I feel like I’m dumping my pain and my past on you.”

“You hired me for a job. No dumping.”

The job didn’t include him kissing her scars. Or bandaging her arm. Or…

“Do you want me to stay in here with you, Shelby?” Low. Deep. “The offer to bunk on the floor stands.”