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He inhaled the cool air, bringing his senses back to alert mode. If she weren’t hurt, he’d have made his way to the stream to cool off.
Keeping his mental focus on nothing but heating her chilled body, he created friction with his palms on her skin. Rubbing from shoulder blades to waist, he gave her all the fire he could generate. There was one surefire way to get her blood moving...
Off-limits, dummy.
He caught her arms and gently pushed her back. His dick protested. “Let’s have a look at that.” His voice was grim and gruff.
“Okay.” She held the shirt, oversized on her delicate frame, away from the bloody gash. He crouched, and she jumped at his hand on her upper thigh. “Is it deep?” she asked on a wheezy, pained intake of breath.
“You’ll need stitches,” he said tersely.
She scrunched up her face. “No way.”
“Not now. We don’t have time. I’m going to clean and bandage it quickly, then we need to get to the road to meet Rami.”
He clicked on his penlight and passed it to her. “Hold this for me,” he commanded.
She did as he asked, keeping the light on her wound. Her hand shook, and it took all his willpower not to hold her against his chest again. She was still injured, still terrified. Needed comfort—and he wasn’t the dude to give it to her because he wouldn’t be able to keep his cock in his pants.
Reality was sinking in. Had he shown up a minute, no, a second later, she’d have been dead. Stabbed to death and bleeding out in a cold fucking stream. He shouldn’t have left her. None of this would have happened if he’d just done his job and—
“You’re angry.”
It irked him that she could read him.
He fit a small towel beneath the wound and then popped the cap off the antiseptic. “Not angry. This’ll sting for a minute.” Holding the bottle away from the cut, he waited for her okay. Her jaw clenched and she gave one curt nod. He doused the wound. Savannah’s sharp gasp made him want to stop.
He didn’t. Washing away the blood, he took a closer look at the gash. “Yeah, it’s as deep as I thought.” He returned the bottle to his first aid kit then pulled out a square waterproof bandage, which he carefully applied.
She squirmed.
“Sorry,” he breathed, still pressing on the bandage, his other hand on the inside of her knee for counterpressure. “I want that bleeding to slow.”
“You sound mad,” she pressed. Her voice was small. Until now, he’d witnessed only one setting in Savannah Carrington:Fuck you.
Thinning his lips, he rocked his jaw. Clearly his professional demeanor had gone out the fucking window. But damn right he was mad. He was pissed as hell that he needed to keep his hands off her for a week and he’d barely lasted the day. “I’m mad you got hurt. It’s my fault.” He kept his voice even and drank in her pouty lips and dirty face. Still a fuckin’ smokeshow.
“It’s not your fault.”
He pulled his hands from her skin then grabbed the pair of jogging pants he’d cast aside when he saw her bloodied hand. Holding them open once again, he jerked his head. “We need to move.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder for balance, put one foot in a pantleg, then the other. He shimmied the joggers up her legs and tightened the drawstring, but the damn material still hung off her hips.
“Thank you.” Her tone was cautious. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was scared.
Of me?
He didn’t have time to dwell on feelings. His or hers. He shoved the first aid kit into his backpack and looped his arms through the bag then returned to where he’d found her. The gun was lying near the stream. He slung her bag over his shoulder and held out his hand. “Can you walk?”
She nodded. He’d half expected her to push on without assistance—the Savannah from a few hours ago probably would have chomped at his hand. Instead, she gripped his elbow and walked beside him. He pulled his gun from his waistband and kept it pointed at the forest floor as he led them through the woods.
“I can carry my bag,” she said.
He scoffed. “Honey, no offense, but I’m afraid you’re gonna drop as it is.”
She stiffened. “I’m fine.”
“You weren’t even fine before you got stabbed.”
