Or, more accurately, hollering at me.
Gunner.
Because I was running away from my life.
Because some vicious drug dealer wanted to kill me.
My hand went to my chest a little shakily, pressing over my heart, willing it to calm down as I rose from the bed, reaching to shift the sheets back into place as I grabbed my dressing gown – pink and silky – and slid it on over my shorts and tank.
My feet moved into slippers as I made my way to the door, wanting to at least greet him and inform him I needed twenty minutes to get myself together.
I was reaching to tie my sash as I broke into the doorway of the common area, finding Gunner waiting there, a mug of coffee in his hand, the smell of it seeming to break through the last bits of sleep clinging to my brain.
Gunner’s gaze went to me, roaming over me slowly. Penetrative, that was what his eyes were. Like he was seeing underneath my clothes and inside my skin. Not sexually, though. Sexually would have been expected. Inappropriate, but not altogether off-putting. But there was nothing there but mild interest.
“Good morning,” I said, reaching up to flatten my hair, a self-conscious move I wouldn’t normally be known for – fidgeting, fussing. But I also wouldn’t usually greet someone in the morning without at least taking a short look in a mirror. “I didn’t know when you would be coming, or I would have set an alarm. What time is it?”
“Four-fifteen.”
Burning daylight?
Four-fifteen meant the sun wasn’t even thinking about kicking the moon out of the way yet.
I was an early riser by most standards.
But that meant I was up around five, then at work before six.
Four-fifteen, that was just insanity.
But he had been clear. When I’d signed the papers, I had signed my life over to him.
Everything was on his schedule now.
And, apparently, his schedule started at four-fifteen in the morning.
I could adjust. I’d have to.
“Okay. Noted. I just need to get dressed,” I explained, waving at my obvious pajamas before moving over toward my bags to rummage through.
“We need to talk about your luggage.” His voice seemed to come from right behind me, like he had followed to tower over me where I was squatting down beside my collection of bags.
“What about it?” I asked, trying to stuff my panties under my slacks before he could see them.
“You can take maybe a third of it,” he informed me, catching me off-guard, my body jolting, losing balance, falling to the side.
A strong hand closed around my wrist, stopping me from slamming onto my back on the unyielding hardwood floor. But the stretch pulled at my wound in my stomach, making me do the unthinkable.
Cry out in pain.
“Fuck,” he hissed as soon as my butt was safely on the floor, releasing my wrist, and dropping down on his knees beside me. His hand swatted mine away from where I was clutching my stomach, ripping at my carefully tied sash, going inside, and yanking up the silky material of my tank top to inspect the wound. “It’s alright,” he said, tone somewhat remorseful even though all he had tried to do was stop me from whacking my head off the floor. “Didn’t break back open. Gonna have to baby that for a while,” he went on, and suddenly the hand at my stomach didn’t feel quite as clinical as it had a second before.
I could feel scars and callouses there – the hands of a man who actually used them – against the skin I slathered twice daily with creams meant to keep it soft. The contrast sent a strange, warm feeling over my skin, traveling across my stomach… sinking down.
Down?
No, that couldn’t be right.
Except there was a definite fluttering sensation between my legs.
“I’m okay,” I said, sounding a little winded, making his gaze shoot up to my face, eyes doing that see-into-me thing again, like he knew exactly what was going on in my confused body. His hand lifted, pulled my shirt back down, then he moved away.
“Good. So you get to bring three bags. Everything else will be sent to you. Eventually. When it’s safe.”
“I need…”
“No one needs twelve bags, duchess,” he said, turning to my luggage, zipping open a bag with a tag that clearly labeled it clothes, took out a handful of items, then dug his hand into my undergarment bag, shoving undies into the clothing bag.
“I can do that myself,” I insisted, trying to slowly get onto my knees, pretending to ignore the pain that was constant and distracting.
“Yep. And you’d take three times as long,” he said, opening the bag for pajamas, throwing a few mismatched pieces of my silky sleepwear into the main bag. “Figure one of these is your shampoo and shit. I will let you sort that. Third bag can be personal items if you have them. You can do that too. Go get dressed, so you can get on that.”