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I was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. Tanner might be a big, scary, tatted guy, but he had a soft side too. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have burned his hands on my behalf, just to save a tray of cookies. Brent wouldn’t have done anything to help me unless it benefited him.
“No,” I lied, hating the discomfort that snagged deep in my chest when his face fell and a familiar scowl reappeared. He watched as I slid the cookies on to a cooling rack and threw the tray in the sink.
Cole would be back any minute. He’d gone for a run and promised he wouldn’t be long. Silas was doing some work, he said, and had disappeared a couple of hours ago. I still had no clue what these guys actually did for a living.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. He was leaning against the counter nonchalantly when I turned around. The way his biceps bulged was frankly distracting, but I dragged my thirsty gaze away and focused on wiping the counter down instead.
“Then don’t.” His jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Just watched me as I picked up various pots and tools, ostensibly ignoring his presence but unbearably aware of every inch of him.
Sugar and vanilla hung heavy in the air, but beneath that was the intoxicating scent of him: fresh sweat, cedar, and musk. All man.
Forcing my brain to quit showing me enticing images of Tanner shirtless, I tossed the rag I’d been using into the sink. No matter how dismissive Tanner was about the burns on his hands, they needed treating. I couldn’t bear the idea of him in pain.
“Is there a first aid kit?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Why?”
“So I can treat your burns.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation already?”
God, he was annoying. Why did men think it was manly to ignore physical pain? It really wasn’t. It was just stupid. Burns blistered and then the blisters popped and oozed nasty liquid everywhere. That was unhygienic at best, and a prelude to infection at worst.
“Sorry, but I can’t ignore your burns, so let me treat them. Please.” The pleading note at the end of the sentence irritated me, but I couldn’t help it. It bothered me to see him in pain.
His expression softened, and he moved closer. “Look at my hands, baby.” He held them out, palm up, and I looked. Already, the redness was fading, and there were no blisters at all.
“How?” I asked. Seeing how the accelerated healing worked in real time helped cement just how different we were. If I’d sustained burns like that, I’d be in a lot of pain and dealing with huge blisters.
He shrugged. “It’s just how we’re made. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you we heal quickly.”
I took his hands and examined them closely, rubbing my thumbs over the deep callouses. They were the hands of someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work. I couldn’t deny how attractive that was.
“How long would it take to recover from a gunshot wound?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Thinking of shooting me, baby?” he smirked, and I blushed.
“No, of course not.”
I dropped his hands like they were hot coals and tried to step back, but he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me against him.
“A few days, depending how serious the injury is and whether the bullet is removed. We usually sleep while we heal.”
Heat warmed my skin. Touching him was like sitting next to a furnace. As someone who felt the cold, it was delicious, and I really didn’t want to move away.
He affected me. My body reacted the minute he was in the same room, and judging by the golden glow in his eyes, he was fully aware of the way he made me feel. His hands gripped my waist tightly, but instead of fear, being this close to him felt right, like my body knew on a cellular level he meant me no harm.
“How many times have you been shot?”
He looked down at me, the smile on his lush lips fading slightly. “Too many times.” Before I could respond, he pushed me back and whipped his tee off, revealing his muscular torso covered in ink.
My mouth instantly dried up. God, he was beautiful. Complex patterns and swirling images of birds, dragons, and thorns captured my gaze. I was so entranced by his tattoos that I didn’t react when he took my hand and placed it on his upper pectoral.
“Feel that?” My fingers traced the muscle and hit a small puckered scar, hidden by ink. “That was my first one. I was out with my pa, one of the first times after I’d starting shifting into my wolf. A hunter shot me. Luckily, he was a shit shot or he might have killed me.”
I felt sick at the thought of a young Tanner being shot in the forest.
“This was the second.” He moved my fingers lower until I felt a second scar just above his Adonis belt. “I was 18 and drunk. Picked a fight with some bikers in a bar and got shot. Cole dragged me away before I ripped the guy’s arm off.” My fingers skated across his abs, a bit to the left. “And this was another bar fight.”
