The Hunger (The Lycans 3)

“I’m fucking this up.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and moved a step toward me. I pressed my back to the metal headboard. His body stilled as he clenched that square jaw once more. “I will no’ hurt ye,” he said and looked at my wrists again. “No’ purposefully.”

“Like I have any reason to believe my kidnapper.”

He exhaled and surprised the hell out of me by saying, “Yeah, ye’re right.” He didn’t speak for long moments and stayed still. Then he gestured to my hand. “I’d like tae see how it is.”

I looked at the bandage that covered my palm, and a strong part of me wanted to tell him again to fuck off, that I didn’t want him touching me. Those words were on the tip of my tongue, but as if he knew I would deny him, he was in front of me so fast I gasped and felt my eyes widen.

“I just want tae make sure it’s healing and I cleaned it well enough.”

I didn’t know why I did what I did, but before I knew what my actions were, I had my hand out to him. He didn’t break our locked gazes as his fingers wrapped gently around my hand, his palm cradling my knuckles. It wasn’t lost on me that he was mindful of the raw edges around my wrist from the handcuffs. He exhaled, and his massive chest shuddered from the act. I swore I could sense that he was grateful I’d conceded, was pleased I relented and let him touch me, even if it was just my hand.

“Thank ye,” he murmured as he looked carefully at my palm.

He acted like I’d just given him the greatest gift.

My entire body was frozen in place as I watched him gently—oh so gently—peel the tape from my skin, the strip of gauze that covered it coming up with it. I swore he was holding his breath as he revealed the cut.

I could see, as he pulled away the dressing, that even though the wound was angry and red, it wasn't as bad as what I’d thought or how it felt when I had gotten it.

“Let me change this again.” He didn’t phrase it like a question, and I didn’t respond. His voice was soft and low, and I felt this warmth fill me at the sound.

That pissed me off even more, and I berated myself because of it.

He let go of my hand, but I didn’t miss how he trailed his fingers along the back of mine before finally stepping away. I watched him go over to the mantel of the fireplace and pick up a box—a first-aid kit I hadn’t noticed.

When he came back toward me, he pulled the chair close to the edge of the bed and set the box on the mattress. And then he had a fresh four-by-four square of gauze out, the roll of tape, and picked up a little tube of antiseptic cream.

I was silent as I watched him methodically clean the wound, and despite his large hands and intimidating stature, he was gentle. Once it was clean, he put some antibiotic ointment on it, and then he had the new piece of gauze on my palm, the tape sealing it and keeping it in place. I stared at his face the entire time, unable to look away even though I should have.

I snatched my hand back and cradled it to my chest, refusing to look at him again.

Why was I not afraid of this man? Why did I allow him to tend to me? I didn’t want him taking care of me, didn’t want him anywhere near me. Right?

I just wanted to go home. But on the heels of that thought, where was home? The bed-and-breakfast in town? My tiny-ass apartment I lived in alone back in the city in America?

But although I had nothing to my name, not really, and only Evelyn as a friend and family, I felt this strange sensation in me that made me feel like this was where I should be. I’d been missing something, and it felt like I’d found it.

God, I was so confused. Had I hit my head when I went down? Was I suffering from some kind of mental breakdown from an impact? My head didn’t hurt, but hell, right now all I could focus on was this man’s close proximity and the way he smelled. Like, so good.

“Why am I here, and what do you plan on doing with me… to me?” Those last two words were whispered.

He stared at me for a prolonged moment before he shifted on the seat and reached out the tray. He placed it on his lap, the thing seeming dwarfed compared to his big body. He picked up a fork and knife that I could see peeking out from a napkin. And yet he still didn’t speak as he went about cutting that slab of meat into bite-sized pieces.