The Heathen (Preacher Brothers 2)

Chapter Seven

Kimber

I knew he was going to go down before his big body hit the floor. And for the longest time, I just stood there, my body pressed to the wall, my heart racing, fear having this stranglehold on me.

I stared at his face, his five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and jaw, the tattoos covering his neck, his biceps. He was so big and strong despite being so weak in this moment.

And I should have left right then and there, but I just stood still, breathing fast and hectic.

I was on the verge of crying for how terrified I was, but mixed in with that was this feeling of… life. It was an insane combination of not knowing if I was going to survive the next second and feeling like I’d never really been living until this one moment.

I exhaled slowly as I continued to look at his body. I’d heard his head hit the ground pretty hard, saw fresh blood start to saturate the bandage on his temple. I looked at the front door, the wind and snow, sleet and angry weather that sounded like bullets hitting the wood and glass telling me the storm was just as nasty as it had ever been. Maybe even more so now.

I glanced at where the gun was, knocked out of his hands when he fell. I quickly picked it up and found myself darting away from him, a few feet from where he lay, the heavy metal in my palm a reminder that it had just been pressed to my side. Had he been about to kill me? Hurt me? The obvious answer was yes, but in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the truth.

My heart was racing like a freight train. I wasn’t thinking as I turned and ran to the door, grabbed my keys off the little hook on the wall, and threw my shoes on. I had the door flung open a second later, but I just stood there, looking at the vicious weather outside, knowing there was no way I’d be able to maneuver my vehicle in it. And I was a mile from the nearest neighbor, something I’d loved when I bought this little house, but now regretting the isolation.

But the truth was that’s not why I was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to leave. I looked over my shoulder at where Cullen lay, the white bandage now soaked clean through. Snow and ice slapped against my body, cutting into my neck like little shards of glass.

I had to use strength to close the door from the torrential wind, and once it was shut, I leaned my back against it. I continued to stare at Cullen, thinking again how he could have hurt me a hundred different ways in just this short amount of time.

But he hadn’t.

I’d seen in his eyes he was conflicted, even if he tried to hide it.

“Who are you?” I whispered and took my shoes off before putting my keys back on the hook, and I walked over to Cullen. I still had the gun in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around it, the metal now warm from my touch. I looked around the living room then glanced into the kitchen. Without thinking anymore, I walked over to one of the drawers and pulled it open, pushing junk around until I found some twine. It would have to do.

I was back by him a second later, the gun sitting on the floor beside me, the heavy thump of it hitting the ground filling my head. I felt like crying again, because as I stared at this man, who I didn’t even know, I was aware it didn’t matter how strong someone was. They were hurting on the inside, had pain and darkness that ate at them like a spreading cancer.

People were the way they were for a reason, and more times than not, that reason was because they had this vulnerability in them that they refused to show.

And I knew that was Cullen.

I had read him as easily as if he’d been an open book and a magnifying glass had been pointed right at the page that described his soul.

I didn’t know why I felt this connection with him, this pull to heal him, to be strong not only for myself but for him as well, but it was indescribable how much I felt that.

I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid, that it didn’t matter how much he pushed, tried to frighten me. I was here to help.

Or maybe I was wrong and this man was as evil as they came.

I found myself reaching out and smoothing my finger gently along one of his dark eyebrows. I made a downward path along his jaw, the stuff under the digit smooth. I stopped at his neck, traced the tattoos that lined his skin, and wondered if he’d gotten so many because he was hiding something from the world, from himself.