Her hose disappeared, flung into a corner wastebasket, and Silver found herself perched back on the counter. Kirk nudged her legs to the side, removing the biggest first-aid kit she’d ever seen from the cupboard beneath the unit. She boggled at the contents. It looked like something a field medic would carry into battle.
“You’re certainly well prepared,” she said, watching him rifle through the kit with brisk efficiency.
He grunted, placing a bottle of antiseptic and a pair of tweezers beside her. “Lift your foot; rest it on my leg,” he instructed, patting his thigh to show where he wanted her to place it.
The last of the adrenaline left her system, and a bone-deep weariness settled over her. Even moving her leg seemed like too much effort. Wrapping his callused palm around her calf, Kirk propped her foot in position and bent his dark head over it. The motion caused her skirt to ride up her thigh, but he gave no sign of noticing, dabbing at the bloody graze with a warm washcloth.
He cleaned around the wound, his actions surprisingly gentle for such a big, fierce man. Silver relaxed a little under his ministrations, watching him work. The cloth brushed over a painful spot, making her catch her breath.
“Sorry, kitten,” he murmured, dropping the cloth into the sink beside her. He took up the tweezers, nudging at whatever was stuck in her leg.
“Ow!” Silver tried to tug her leg from his grasp, but he held on until she quit moving.
“Grab onto my shoulder. It looks like a piece of glass. Be brave for me, okay?” He glanced up through his brows, a softer look in those deep, brown eyes than she’d seen before.
Catching her lip between her teeth, she curled a tentative hand over the cord of muscle close to his neck. The cold metal instrument dug into her flesh, and she squeezed her fingers, small nails digging into the solid mass of his shoulder. He pressed the tweezers deeper, making her whimper. A sharp tug and he held up the tiny piece of glass, displaying his prize with a look of satisfaction. Blood trickled from her leg, and he used the cloth to wipe it away.
“I think that’s the last of it. No point in putting anything on it until after you’ve had a shower.” He lifted her other leg, nodded once, and released it. “Nothing in there that won’t wash away.”
Dropping back on his heels, Kirk stared at her. “How the fuck did you end up in such a mess, kitten?” he asked, shaking his head.
I have no idea.
Feeling uncomfortable under his intense gaze, she raised a hand to rub the back of her neck. Her fingers caught in the tangled remains of her bun. Ripped knees, filthy coat, hair hanging half down her back. She must look a fright.
“Do you have a comb?”
He blinked once, shook his head, and pushed up to his full height. He rubbed a hand over his short hair. “I don’t have much call for one, sorry.”
“I had one in my rucksack.” She looked around the room, as though her missing bag might be hiding in the corner.
“It’s in the truck. Jesse gave it to me when we left the diner. Have your shower, and I’ll go and fetch it for you.”
She nodded in gratitude. After shrugging off her ruined coat, she began to unfasten the cuffs on her blouse. The pale material was stained, and she caught a whiff of sweat from her earlier fear. If his sense of smell was half as good as his other senses, then she was amazed he could stand to be in the same room as her. The shower beckoned like a Siren, but she hesitated. There wouldn’t be any point getting clean if she had to put the same clothes back on.
“I don’t have anything else to wear,” she said, toying with the bedraggled-looking bow at the neck of her blouse.
Kirk paused in the bathroom doorway, studying her over his shoulder. His gaze traveled the length of her body, leaving her tingling from the ends of her fingers to the tips of her toes. The heat in his eyes unmistakable, he caught and held her gaze.
“I’ll find you something to put on.” He exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
She slumped back against the sink unit, hand fluttering at her throat, heart racing a mile a minute. No man had ever looked at her with such awareness. She’d had a date or two, even got as far as going to bed with a kind, if ineffectual, male friend at college. The experience had left her disappointed, embarrassed, and in no hurry to let another man put his hands on her body.
Kirk wouldn’t fumble his way around, wouldn’t pinch her skin with his nails, or spill his seed before she got close to an orgasm. A pulse throbbed between her legs as she pictured his big body pinning her underneath him. She shook herself. Not half an hour ago he was discussing how to dispose of your dead body, and you’re fantasizing about him?
It had to be a reaction to the shock. Had to be.
Face flaming, she unfastened the limp bow and fiddled with the buttons on her blouse. The door flew open, the noise making her jump. Kirk glowered at her, all the earlier kindness wiped from his face by a vicious snarl.
He tossed her bag and a folded bundle of clothing at her feet. “Get in the fucking shower, Silver!”
The door slammed closed, the bang even louder than when he’d flung it open, if that were possible. The rush of lust she’d experienced vanished beneath a fresh wash of fear. Fingers shaking, she twisted the lock on the door and stripped off her clothes.
Hot water thundered down from the huge showerhead, blasting her from all sides via the jets fixed at various points on the walls. She closed her eyes, lifting her head to let the water cascade over her face. A sob rattled in her chest as she massaged a handful of shower gel into her hair. Steam rose, filling her senses with the fresh, clean scent of the man on the other side of the door. The tight knot in her chest unraveled, and Silver let go. Hot tears of fear and shock ran down her cheeks, disappearing into the drain in a swirl of citrus bubbles.
Chapter Four
Kirk paced the floor of the cabin, feet moving faster and faster as he tried not to picture what was happening behind the bathroom door. The water would be running down all that creamy, ripe flesh, driving the cold from her skin the way he longed to do with the heat of his body. The smell of her arousal hit him the moment he stepped out of his bedroom with her bag slung over his shoulder and a T-shirt and a pair of boxers for her to wear. The urge to claim her, to back her luscious body into the shower and fuck until they were both mindless rode him like a freight train.
“Fuck it!” He abandoned his pacing, jumping up to grab the chin bar. A harsh sound echoed from the other room, and he gripped the bar until his fingers turned white. She was crying, for fuck’s sake.
He hauled himself up and down, locking his ankles so the full weight of his 300 plus pounds hung from his shoulders. Not his problem. He wasn’t a nursemaid. He wasn’t there to kiss her boo-boos and make everything better.
Kissing, shit! He shouldn’t have thought about kissing. His dick turned rock hard. He imagined trailing his lips down her neck to those delicious-looking tits. Would her nipples be pink or brown? Her hair was dark, but given the paleness of her skin, he’d have to look to know for sure.
Jumping away from the bar, he yanked the door open and ran out into the night. The flat soles of his running shoes sent gravel pinging against the side of the truck as he sprinted past and ducked into the trees. The bulge in his jeans made it awkward to run, but he pushed himself harder. He needed to put some distance between him and the human in his cabin before he did something stupid. A rough, scarred bastard like him was no good for a delicate little thing like Silver Ellis.
The difference in their sizes would make the logistics themselves a challenge. He’d have to kneel beside the bed to get their hips at the same height. Maybe lie on his back and haul her into his lap, have her ride him like a pony. More blood rushed to his cock, and he stumbled to a standstill.
Resting his hands on his hips, he blew out a breath, turning in a circle to get his bearings. He knew every inch of the lands surrounding not just his home, but the whole town. His flight had carried him farther than he’d realized—a good m
ile from the cabin.
Silver should be out of the shower right now, though it would take some time to dry her hair if it was anywhere near as long as he imagined it to be given the size of the knot pinned at her nape. The wet strands would flow down her back like melted chocolate, the ends brushing against the curve of her ass. And he’d left her alone, with the door wide open. Derek had placed her in his safe-keeping, and yet here he was, hiding in the trees, thinking with his dick instead of his brain.
“Shit!” He ran flat out, retracing his steps, ducking branches and leaping over fallen logs without a single thought for his own safety. The pack relied upon him to do what must be done, and he would do it. Even if his balls turned blue in the process.
“Silver!” He charged through the open door of the cabin, claws out. The door to the bathroom swung open, and she stared at him, brown eyes wide. He hid his hands behind his back before she could see his twisted nails.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” The T-shirt he’d left for her swallowed her frame, the hem skimming to mid-thigh, the edge of his boxers peeking out beneath it. She’d scooped the wet mass of her hair over one shoulder, and he could tell from the comb in her hand she’d been in the process of untangling it.
She looked sexy as all hell.
A wave of possessiveness gripped him at the sight of her wearing his clothes. Even though it was clean, the material would carry his scent, would leave a trace of him on her skin. He wanted more than a trace. He wanted to mark her so deeply, everyone would know who she belonged to. What the hell? She didn’t belong to him; he needed to get a grip. Needed her to get a grip, wrap her little hand around the thick shaft pressing against his fly.
“Argh!” Kirk slammed the front door closed, putting all his frustration into it. Something cracked, and he scowled up at a split in the frame. Turning his glare on Silver, he tried to get his mind back in the game.
“Are you hungry?” he demanded.
“What?” She blinked at him, a look of utter confusion on her face.
“Are. You. Hungry. It’s not exactly a difficult fucking question.” He marched into the kitchenette area of the open plan space, anything to avoid the hurt glistening in her eyes. She better not start crying again.
He yanked open a cupboard and pulled out a couple of large cans of tomato soup. It was getting late, and he didn’t have the patience to cook a full meal. Silver would be better with something easy to eat, given everything she’d been through. A lance of something suspiciously like guilt stabbed into him. He banged a pan onto the small stove, dumped the contents of the cans, and turned the heat on beneath it.
A small sniff behind him sent tension arrowing up his spine, but he refused to turn around, reaching instead for a thick loaf of bread and a sharp knife. She sniffed again.
“For the love of God,” he snarled, spinning on his heel, brandishing the knife in front of him.
She screamed.
Dropping the comb, she fled for the bathroom. He lowered his head in despair, scowling when he saw the seven-inch blade of the butcher knife he’d grabbed. Clenching his fingers around the handle, he turned his attention to the bread, hacking off a few lumps that in no way resembled slices. He retrieved a tub of butter from the refrigerator, slapped some on the bread.
Gloop.
“Goddamnit!” he cursed, sucking the splash of hot soup from the back of his hand.
He grabbed a spoon to stir the bubbling pot, scraping the liquid from the bottom before it had a chance to stick. The door to the bathroom inched open, but he kept his back to it. He followed Silver’s cautious progress across the room with just his ears, noting the soft scrape when she bent to retrieve her comb from the floor.
“Soup’s ready. Grab a seat,” he said, shaking his head in frustration at the small squeak she emitted at the sound of his voice.
“I’m not hungry,” she whispered, and he heard her edging toward the bathroom.
“Sit your fucking ass at the table, Silver. Right this minute.” Hauling his temper under control, he snatched a couple of bowls and plates from the overhead cabinet.
He filled the bowls, slung the bread on the plates, and strode to the wooden table. She perched on the very edge of one of the chairs, the one closest to the bathroom door. He blew out a breath, dumping everything down. Returning to the kitchen, he filled two tall glasses with milk and placed them with care in the neutral space between them. Taking the seat opposite her, he avoided her eyes and reached for his spoon.
“Shit!” Shoving his chair back so hard it skidded about five feet, he marched to the drawer where he stored the silverware then retraced his steps to the table, spoons in hand.
“Eat.” He brandished one of them at her, but she made no move to take it. He clattered the spoon into her bowl, causing the soup to slosh over the side onto the tabletop. Stomping to his seat with a growl, Kirk shoved the hot liquid into his mouth in a series of rapid movements. The bowl was half empty by the time he paused to grab a chunk of bread. Silver’s meal remained untouched before her.
“If you don’t eat, I’ll feed you myself,” he snapped.
Her head jerked up. Easy, man. Take it easy, she’s tired and scared. Forcing down his natural aggression, he gave her a reassuring grin. She recoiled, dropping her gaze to her lap. He wished to hell she’d stop flinching every time he tried to be nice. Women were weird.
Kirk reminded himself once again why he lived alone. Happily, peacefully alone.
“You need to keep your strength up. I promised Derek I would look after you, and he’ll be pissed at me if he thinks I didn’t do a good job taking care of you.”
A snort of derision flew from her nose, and she clamped her hand over her face. The sour fear smell returned, tainting the intoxicating mix of honeysuckle and citrus he’d been trying hard not to notice. He scrubbed a hand over his head. Just as well he kept his hair short, or this bloody female would have him pulling it out by the roots.
“You’re safe here. I’ll protect you.” He moderated his tone, pitching his voice as low and quiet as he could.
“That’s great, but who’ll protect me from you?” she muttered.
Christ! He kept his head down, mopping the rest of his soup up with the remainder of his bread. Pushing away from the table, he gave her some space, making a big performance of washing out his bowl and the pan.
The faint chink of silverware on china filled him with relief, and he continued to clean the kitchen, wiping the cloth over the surfaces, the front of the refrigerator, and the top of the stove. He kept himself busy, pretending not to be aware of every single move she made.
He tracked her movements as she approached, holding still when she placed her dishes in the sink next to him. He waited for her to retreat, heard the frame on his old armchair creak as she settled herself into it. The chair stood next to the window, the farthest point she could get from him and still be in the room. He rinsed her bowl and spoon, took the time to dry them, and put everything away in the cupboards before he turned to look at her.
She sat cross-legged in the middle of the chair, head down so her long hair hung forward, the ends touching the floor. Gripping close to the roots, she pulled the comb through, in long even strokes. The rhythmic motion mesmerized him, and he tucked his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. They itched to take the comb from her, to stroke away the fear and tension he could see in her stiff shoulders.
Tearing his eyes away, he frowned at the near-full glass of milk she’d left on the table. Seizing the excuse to approach her, he picked up the drink and carried it over. He carefully placed the glass on an orange crate that served as a side table then forced himself to move away. He sat opposite her on the unfamiliar couch. The cushions were firm beneath his ass, harder than the chair. The couch was reserved for visitors, not that he ever invited anyone over. The only pack member who came to his cabin was Derek, and he rarely stayed long enough to bother sitting down.
Shifting his weight until he could find
a comfortable position, he watched and waited. Silver continued to comb her hair, teasing the last few knots loose. Gathering the thick strands between her hands, she twisted it round into a tight ball, using a band around her wrist to secure it in place. She lifted her head, cheeks flushed from leaning down for so long. He held back a sigh of disappointment. He wanted to see it free, framing her face and flowing down her back. His mind conjured images of it spread across the white pillows on his bed, and had to cross his legs to hide the return of his infernal erection. Damn, he would end up with a permanent imprint of his zipper on his cock if he kept thinking about her like that.
“Drink your milk.”
“I’m not that keen on milk. Do you have any coffee?”
He shook his head. He didn’t do stimulants of any sort, wouldn’t risk anything that might elevate his temper. They didn’t last in his system for long. His enhanced shifter metabolism burned everything fast—calories, caffeine, alcohol. Still, he didn’t like feeling off balance for even a moment. Not when it could cost someone their life.
Another reason he needed to get Silver out of his life as soon as possible. She upset his equilibrium, fucked with his head more than drugs or booze ever could. He studied her again. What was it about the little human that stirred him up? There was nothing remarkable about her looks, pretty enough, but not the kind of woman to turn heads. She didn’t flaunt herself. Given her dowdy clothes and lack of makeup and adornments, it appeared she did the opposite.
That hair, though.
Kirk longed to run his fingers through it, to wrap it around his fist until he controlled her head. He wanted to pull it until she creamed all over her thighs while he fed his cock into the hot cavern of her mouth.
“What are you doing?”
He blinked and shook his head, his reverie disrupted by her question. “Huh? Nothing? Never mind.” A strange tingle heated his neck. Jesus, now I’m blushing? Thank fuck his beard would cover the worst of his reaction.
Silver Moon (Hot Moon Rising #6) Page 4