God, if I ever got out of here, I was going to need so much therapy.
The shower cut off and my heart kicked against my ribs.
I stared at the table like it held the secrets of the universe, my hands white-knuckled on the edge.
"Merrilee."
I turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
He stood near the partition, water still beading on his pelt, catching the light like tiny diamonds scattered across suede. His hair hung loose and wet around his shoulders, darker now, clinging to his neck and chest. The nasty, blood-soaked trousers he'd worn into the arena were gone—not that I blamed him, they'd been torn to shreds and filthy beyond saving.
But what he wore now...
A loincloth. Just a simple strip of fabric that covered the absolute bare minimum and left everything else on display.
And I do mean everything.
Those powerful legs, thick with muscle, the pelt on his thighs darker where it was still damp. His hips, narrow and defined in a way that made my mouth go dry. His stomach—oh God, his stomach—all carved muscle despite the fresh stitches I'd just put across his chest. The way the loincloth sat low on those hips, the fabric clinging slightly from moisture, drawing my eyes to the defined V of muscle that disappeared beneath—
I yanked my gaze upward.
My eyes caught on his arms instead. On shoulders so broad they blocked out the light behind him. On the way water traced paths through his pelt, following the contours of muscle.
He moved—just shifted his weight slightly—and I watched those muscles ripple beneath golden pelt. Watched the way his body moved with that quiet, predatory grace despite his injuries.
He could break me in half without even trying.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, my body responded with a rush of heat that made my knees weak.
Steam still drifted from the shower behind him, carrying his scent—something clean and male and utterly foreign. Not cologne or soap, just... him. The natural musk of his body, warm and alive and far too appealing.
I dragged in a breath and immediately regretted it. The scent filled my lungs, made my head swim.
"I should—" My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I should clean up too."
He nodded, stepping aside to give me space.
I had to walk past him. Had to move within inches of all that barely-contained power, all that heat radiating from his body.
Up close, I saw the individual droplets of water still clinging to his pelt. Noticed the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Saw a scar that ran along his collarbone, old and faded, and another across his ribs that looked newer.
My eyes traveled lower before I could stop them. To the defined ridges of his stomach. To the way the loincloth clung to—
His hand moved slightly, and I realized with horror that he'd caught me staring.
Heat flooded my face. I jerked my gaze up to his.
He was watching me. And from the slight tilt of his head, the almost-smile that tugged at his mouth, the knowing glint in those golden eyes—he knew exactly what I'd been staring at.
"Excuse me," I managed, and practically fled past him.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I pressed my palms against the cool partition, trying to ground myself. Trying to remember why I was here. Hewes. I was here for Hewes. That was the only thing that mattered.
Not this. Not the way my pulse hammered in my throat. Not the heat pooling low in my belly or the way my skin felt too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve ending had suddenly woken up and decided to betray me.
