Page 38 of Love Bound

I smell her—mint and soap and something clean but earthy. Real.

Hearing her move across the room leaves me picturing her skin in the firelight, her hair, her face, her eyes.

Fuck it.

"Claire."

Chapter Eleven

Claire

He flinches when I touch him. Or maybe I flinch first. My hands are shaking so badly when I try to clean him up. The fact that he can stand there, after practically bleeding out, leaves me nerveless. Earlier, when I left the bathroom, I thought for a fleeting second he was watching me, a thought that proved so completely unnerving I had to push it away. And that's what I've continued to do.

I grab my instrument bowl and run the water hot, grab a washcloth, and try to clean him quickly. Even though he says he's warm, the moment my hands touch his chest, goosebumps rise. His nipples, dark and tender, tighten.

Just looking at his chest makes me wet. I don't know where to look—his skin, his pecs, and his ribs are so beautiful. Muscled, perfect, brown dark hair swirling in all the right places, with a thin dark trail down between his abs to the other side of his navel diving somewhere below. Broad shoulders, with delts to die for. When he flexes to push off from the edge of the bed, the movement of leveraging his own weight engages every muscle. The guy is ripped. It's why he moves the way he does—with the easy grace of a top athlete.

It isn't until a log falls and a wash of sparks fly up that I see what looks like a bullet scar. I try to act like I don't notice and keep the washcloth moving, avoiding his eyes, the water turning a muddy red.

A smooth, nickel-sized scar sits flat, up by his collarbone on his left side just a few inches above his heart. A bullet leaves this kind of scar. I've seen them on cattle, shot by nasty teenage boys out having a bad weekend. And a dog once, whose owner accidentally let go of a forty-five-caliber bullet while cleaning his handgun.

I want to talk to Finn, to find out what happened, but the bathroom lights flicker for a moment and blink out in sync with the lamp on the nightstand.

In preparation for any more bleeding, I run some more warm water in the bowl and set it by the nightstand. When I help him to bed, the firelight catches another scar—a thin, three-inch streak on his right arm, just below his bicep.

Carved by knifepoint?

He rolls slightly onto his left side, so his hurt side is up, and I check for any seeping.

Then I throw some more logs in the fire, figuring the generator won’t be working. It died the year Travis went off to college. At least this room will stay somewhat warm.

He's sleeping now, and he seems okay, but I still can’t get warm. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it was being in a freezing ice storm for an hour with no coat, but either way, I'm still shaking. The glass windows are wiped black with the night. The power is out all over Echo Bay. Ice continues to crash down against the roof, though with the shingles it's a muffled sound.

It’s not until I turn around that he calls me. Not asleep then.

"Claire."

His voice is thick, dark, and my name on his lips is such a turn on. He's staring at me. His face—lit only by the firelight—seems darker, and my thighs tremble. He takes a hand and smooths a spot next to him on the bed. Not the edge of the bed. The center. Trapped in that gaze, feeling his purpose, I sit on the other side, facing him, one leg bent on the bed, one on the floor.

The warmth from the fire is linear and does little to fill the rest of the room. Involuntarily, I shiver.

"Claire, you're freezing."

"I'm fine." I move from the bed and stand in front of the fire, shivering again as my body tries to catch the heat. My legs are so cold, and my chest and back seem to have a cold that comes from within. My fingers and toes begin to sting.

In one movement, he's flicked the covers back. "Your hair is wet and you look like a ghost. Come here and lie down before you freeze to death."

"Oh, I'm fine, really. That seems weird to do, I mean, its nice of you to offer—"

Those lashes close and he sighs, then catches himself in pain. "Get in bed," he says between his teeth.

"But—"

"Don’t argue. I'll stay under the sheets, you get on top. It’s a military move."

I flash to those scars.

Is he ex-military?