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Hunter's Promise

Page 20

by Billi Jean


  It was better this way. For everyone.

  Especially Kincaid.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hunter bit her lip hard then gasped. Kincaid dove in through her diminishing spell, landing almost on top of her before he caught himself and rolled. He grunted loudly when his shoulder hit the floor next to her.

  It was so fast, one minute she was free of them then Rick was here. She couldn’t process it. The spell closed behind him, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. The pain was so overwhelming that thinking was impossible anyway.

  “Fuck! Woman, give a man a little bit of a break here. Shit, you need to work on—”

  “Shut up and get out of here!” She kicked him or tried to. It was weak and hurt when she did, so she didn’t move again for fear of the agony growing even worse.

  “Hunter, baby, you have to remember I take more time to get through those gates. You almost left me behind and what—”

  “I don’t want you here, you dumbass!” she managed to get out past numb lips.

  “Hey, hey, name-calling is not cool,” he muttered, not listening to her otherwise. He got closer to her by crawling on his knees, and tried to touch her.

  She hissed at him. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you here. Go back!”

  He froze. “I left my goddamn bag, my other gun and my men behind for you. Just deal with it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to leave your men—”

  “You didn’t. That wasn’t fair,” he breathed, rubbing his head with both hands. “We’re still a team here. We’re still going to find my men, and we’re—”

  “No. I quit. I’m done. Just go away,” she cried, unable to stop the hot tears that made it past her lashes.

  “Aw, come on, Sparky—”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said quickly when he leaned closer.

  He froze then sat back, hands on his knees to stare at her.

  “Okay, what do you suggest I do? Watch you bleed to death?” He glanced around and frowned. “And where are we now?”

  What am I going to do? Obviously he had gotten the full story on how much she’d done. Worse, they’d probably told him things she hadn’t—

  Or maybe it was good that he knew more about what she’d done. He was safer as far away from her as he could get.

  ‘I’m going to kill him, take him from you, then we see what you will or won’t do.’

  Larisa had meant that. She’d do it too, if Hunter didn’t make Kincaid leave.

  Satan. He’s found me, or else he always knew where I was, what I’m doing…

  Kincaid had to go.

  “Go away. I mean it. Go away, Kincaid.”

  “Look, we gotta get that knife out of you.” He ignored her.

  She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. She had to tell him.

  “Larisa will try and kill you. Satan. She is with him. He wants me to… He wants me. He’ll use you to get to me.”

  Kincaid laughed.

  She blinked her eyes open and stared at him.

  “I get that she’s evil and all, but killing me won’t get you to sign over your life again. You’re too smart for that. I’ll be honest. I’ve broken some commandments, but I’ve not sinned enough to go to hell. So, for the goddamn record, I’ll be in heaven. Don’t worry your head over me. Now, can I get the goddamn knife out of your stomach?” he shouted, then, calmer, said, “Didn’t I tell you not to get hurt again?”

  “Shot. You said shot, and since you were too busy admiring her goods, I had to do something so you didn’t get fucking stabbed.”

  “You’ve got some kind of language there,” he eased closer, but she scooted back. “Hunter, damn it, hold still.”

  “I’m not letting you touch me. Just go away.” She winced from the pain. “I was serious. Shouting at me isn’t going to make this go away. Saying you’ll go to heaven won’t make Satan go away. Nothing will. I’m cursed, you know? So go away.”

  “Okay, smart one, where should I go? I don’t even know where I am!”

  “Just leave,” she sighed, trying to catch her breath. “The front door is down those stairs.”

  He shoved her hands aside—gently—but she caught his and they struggled enough it hurt her stomach.

  “Hunter, hold still, damn it!”

  “Stop shouting at me, you jerk! I know you hate me now, so just go the hell back to Torment and discuss all the horrible things I’ve done—”

  “All right, all right.” He raised his bloodstained hands. “I listened. You can explain it all. You’ve got my full attention, but we need to get that knife out, baby. We need…scratch that, I need to get that knife out. You’re bleeding all over the floor.”

  The way he said that—as if she mattered, as if her bleeding was killing him—tore at her.

  She still shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to you. And I’m getting the knife out, not you.”

  “Right, so get it out already,” he cried.

  Tears overloaded and fell. It hurt. More, he was hurting her being here.

  “I gated to get away from you.” She hated the way her voice broke on a sob.

  “I know.” He touched her knee gently as he spoke. “I know. I’m sorry, but I’m not giving up on you.” There was such force in his words, she knew he meant it. He smoothed his hand over her knee, but she could feel him trembling. Or maybe she was. “Hunter,” he snapped when she closed her eyes. He moved in and covered her bloody hand with his. “Together, okay, then I’ll leave.”

  “Liar,” she whispered.

  He didn’t deny it. She focused on his face and read the sincerity on his rugged face.

  “I didn’t do anything to your men—. I only saw the ones at the club—just the club—and by then I was tied down too,” she offered painfully.

  “That all?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “So you knew nothing about Washington before I was sliced open.”

  She frowned, shaking her head at that. “I didn’t know anything about that house of horrors.”

  He scanned her face. “Right, then let’s get this out then I’ll share with you what you’re being accused of, okay?”

  She bit her lip, fighting tears at what he was saying. They thought she’d helped trap people, didn’t they? She shook her head.

  “No?” His hand tensed around hers then, before she could stop him, he jerked the blade free.

  She gasped and curled up into a ball, holding her stomach and fighting the need to vomit.

  “Shit, shit, Hunter, baby, come on. Let me see the wound, Hunter. Come on.” Oddly enough, he sounded panicked.

  “It’s okay, not so bad. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she whispered, trying to make herself believe it.

  The world dimmed to the pulse of her pain and gladly she let go, feeling darkness rush her, wiping away the ache in her body and soul.

  “Fuck!” Kincaid moved Hunter to her back. Her head rolled to the side and blood slipped past her lips. He swore his heart stopped. “Fuck, baby, hold on. Don’t wake up though, okay?”

  He pulled her shirt up. The slice was narrow, but bleeding steadily. The color was normal for the kind of wound she’d taken, not too dark but a bright scarlet on her pale stomach. Either it hadn’t hit anything vital or Hunter was tougher than she appeared.

  Of course she’s tougher than she looks. She’s been to hell, and I’ve just put her through it again. He winced and tore his shirt off so he could press it down to stop the blood flow.

  As soon as he could, he glanced around the deserted house. The dimness of the room was caused by heavy, once fine silk drapes. The windows were also boarded up. The furniture was covered in sheets and there was dust everywhere. It was an old home, clearly well made under all the years of neglect. The place reminded him of one of those horror movies that took place in creepy summer homes.

  “Where are we, baby?” There was no telling. His guess was New England, but for all he knew, they could be down south, on
one of those old plantations. It had that creepy feel to it. Something evil about it, he thought. Where they were didn’t matter now, not so much as her wellbeing. He waited a bit longer then picked her shoulders up so he could tie his shirt around her—again. Afterward he gathered her gently in his arms. She weighed so little his heart clenched. She had to be in pain. And this was not as bad as what she’d already survived.

  Torment had shown him videos of her, standing to the side as someone cut a man open and tortured him. If Torment had meant to prove how evil Hunter was, he’d failed, because Kincaid had seen her small hands tremble, and seen how she’d fisted them tightly, probably to try to hide it. He’d also had to watch her use a strap on a man. The guy was evil, Torment had admitted, and had hung himself with a piece of towel in his cell at the Immortal Council days after Hunter had fallen into hell. But Kincaid had been sickened more at how scared Hunter had been, and how her arm shook violently with each stroke she’d delivered to the guy.

  He’d also watched, with Torment, as she’d turned aside and, holding herself up with one hand, vomited on the floor. Whoever had forced her to do those things had some kind of power over her.

  Was she still vulnerable?

  Torment hadn’t given him a good response to that question. His only answer had been that Satan didn’t have a link to Hunter any longer. But Torment had agreed she’d not been a willing servant.

  Hunter had been willing to take a bullet for him. She’d also been willing to get gutted by a wolf who was some kind of servant of Satan, if what Hunter had been saying was true. Hunter had been hysterical, but she believed Satan had sent Larisa. If Hunter believed it, he did too.

  He walked through the empty house to the nearest bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet and checked the faucet. Water came out, surprising him, but it was rusty. He let it run and simply held Hunter on his lap. She was breathing normally, and only a bit more blood showed on her lips. He lifted her hand, and frowned at the half-moon punctures in her palm.

  She’d clenched her fists hard enough to leave marks.

  Why?

  Because she guessed I was listening when I should have been standing by her side and letting her explain it all to me, not letting Torment do it.

  Hunter murmured in his arms and he dropped her hand quickly to test the water.

  Cold.

  He brushed her hair off her face, debating. It’d have to do. He stood and carried her to the bedroom he’d passed, and quickly pulled the heavy white sheet off the bed then laid her down. She didn’t wake, which was ideal. He was half afraid to leave her, in case she tried to get away again, but he had to search for a medical kit.

  Unhappy with leaving her but not thinking of anything else to do, he searched the bathroom. The lights weren’t working, but that was no surprise. Way in the back of a cabinet, he found a box of ancient Band-Aids, along with an old yellowed tube of antibacterial cream. In the kitchen he found a huge six-burner gas stove.

  “Bingo, baby.” He searched, found a box of matches, lit the pilot, got a burner going right after and, quickly as he could, got some water on to boil. He didn’t think to score any needles, but found a sewing room down the hall from the kitchen. An entire room for sewing?

  “Whatever,” he muttered, and got the needle he wanted and thread. He dropped both in the pot and paced the room until they boiled for a few minutes. As soon as he thought it was good enough, he carried it all back to where he’d left her.

  She still slept, but more blood showed on her lips, scaring him.

  “What good is being immortal if you get hurt like this?” Twice she’d come to harm because of him. This time was going to be the last. Even if he had to wrap her in bulletproof vests, she wasn’t suffering another scratch.

  He settled his stash on the bed and unwrapped the smaller bandage he’d covered her wound with. The wound there still hadn’t healed as much as he wanted. The edges were puffy, but a scab had started to form. It was a graze, but even those could be dangerous.

  “What the fuck? How is this immortal?” He worried. “You look like any other gunshot victim I’ve worked on.”

  It wasn’t something he could answer right now, though, so he focused on cleaning the blood off her stomach. His hands shook, which freaked him out, but he kept at it until he’d cleaned her stomach and side. She murmured something but stayed asleep. He thought it was his name, but that might have been wishful thinking.

  “Right, so we need to get you to stop getting hurt,” he said, trying to calm down.

  He winced at the gash and the blood still flowing from it, glad to see it’d slowed. She had to be hurting. Hell, he knew she was. Worse, he had no idea how badly. He wasn’t even certain if he should try to stitch or take her to a hospital. Hell, he had no idea where they even were.

  “Calm your shit and just fix her,” he grumbled, feeling somewhat better for coming to a decision. He wiped away the latest trickle and waited for more to form then did the same, cleaning it out for a good long time. Finally he noticed it slowing, and hoped that it might be okay. The needle was damn hard to thread, but he managed it. He had to gather his courage to stitch her up, but kept his focus on the task to see the job done.

  Ten small stitches later, he gently tied off the knot. “Damn, I should have been a doctor.”

  She murmured, this time for sure his name, but didn’t open her eyes.

  “Sparky, this is not good.” He examined the wounds, smeared almost the whole tube of ointment on her, and exhaled heavily in relief. “Okay, so shit, now what?” He scanned the room, but all he found was the sheet. It had to be dirty, so he went to the closet and opened that. Clothes lined the shelves, some of them pretty glamorous. Nothing to use, and he wasn’t using the old Band-Aids. He opened a drawer and found some sheets and pulled one out. It smelled musty but it was clean. It would have to do.

  He ripped it into strips. Two shirts and a sheet down and he’d only worked with her for a few days.

  What did she do all the other times she fought?

  “Kincaid?”

  He froze then rushed to the bed to see her trying to sit up. As gently as possible, he urged her back down.

  “None of that. Just be still. I stitched you up, but let me get these on you first.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping.

  Careful of her, he positioned his arm under her waist so he could lift her enough to wrap the makeshift bandage around her. “You should have stayed asleep,” he teased her.

  She winced and held her breath.

  “Where are we?” he asked, trying to distract her.

  “My folks’ home, or my adopted mom’s house.”

  “Ah, and she is?”

  “Dead. She died a few years ago. I’m not sure why I came here.”

  He didn’t comment. Sometimes you go on instinct when you’re hurt. He was guessing he’d hurt her pretty badly, and the knife wound had done the rest. Hunter wasn’t stupid. He’d been gone for hours. She’d known why.

  “There. Now ease back.” He tried to keep his voice quiet so he didn’t startle her.

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes, not making a sound—and blocking him out.

  “I’m going to go find some painkillers. I couldn’t find any in the bathroom.”

  “My mom’s old room, next to this. There’s some in her bedside table.” The way she spoke, so woodenly, worried him. She worried him. He let it go, though.

  “Right, be right back.”

  She turned to her side slowly. He wanted to tell her not to, but she seemed comforted by the position, so he stayed quiet.

  Her mom’s, or adopted mom’s, room was twice if not three times the size of the one he’d been in with Hunter. The place was covered in sheets, even the paintings on the wall—or what he assumed were paintings. He found a jar of pretty stiff painkiller, the kind you can get addicted to, in her bedside table. He also found three more, all different kinds and all prescri
ption. There was also a bottle of high-quality bourbon in there, along with some other items that all spoke of a woman wanting a way out of her life. He wasn’t sure why, since the place spoke of money, lots of money.

  “All right, I got some. Here.” He handed her two pills and a glass of water.

  She took the pills, but refused the water.

  He watched her swallow. “So, maybe we should talk. It will help take your mind off the pain.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said quietly. “I want to sleep.”

  “Well, sorry about that.” He sat on the bed, careful not to jar her. He bent and unlaced his boots. The place was safe, so he was going to shower. As soon as he talked to Ms. I-Don’t-Want-to-Talk.

  “Kincaid, go away.”

  “I will. Sure, I’m guessing I stink, but first, I want to talk to you. Letting shit settle instead of getting rid of it just makes a bigger mess.”

  “Kincaid,” she groaned, not the way he would have liked, but she was suffering from pain, not the pleasure he wanted to give her.

  He settled a hand on hers. “Look, there’s a lot I was shown. None of it makes me trust you less. You’ve had my back since the day we met, so that matters, woman, beside all that shit—” He stopped, trying to force her to focus on him. “Hunter.” He squeezed her cold fingers. “Come on.”

  She opened her eyes and moved so that her good one was able to see him.

  “I trust you. As soon as you’re healed, and don’t get hurt again, I want to hear it all. Every single dirty deed, okay?”

  “No way, you—”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” he assured her. “If I have to tie you down to make you, I will, but baby”—he leaned close enough to smell her sweet perfume—“I like to get my way and I’m pretty patient, but you gotta be clean with me. All of it. All, okay?”

  “Why?” she whispered painfully.

  That was easy. He bent closer and kissed her damaged face. “Because, Sparky, I want that wild ride you promised me. I’m hoping it will be wild enough you want to stay on, not hit it and hop off, ready to leave right after.”

 

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