I take a step back, my heart beating so fast, I feel like I might pass out. But I can’t pass out. Can’t let myself lower my guard. Men like Cullen are dangerous when angry, and the one before me is plainly none too pleased with my existence. There’s no telling what he may do if I don’t stay on my guard. No telling what he might do even if I do. I saw how he handled Charlie McTierney. Cullen Hunt is lethal when he wants to be. If he ever decides to assault me, I wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.
My hands tremble at my sides, my feet rooted to the spot. Never taking my eyes off Cullen, I reach into my pocket for my phone. I might have the chance to dial 911, but not before he does his worst. Still, at least someone will come to investigate my broken skull. Right?
If I get out of here safely tonight, I’m never coming back.
It takes five more heartbeats before I absorb the fact that Cullen still hasn’t moved. He’s standing exactly where he was, those green eyes observing my reaction. Then his gaze drops away, sliding down to the floor.
Moving slowly, as if I’m some feral animal he’s accidentally cornered, Cullen backs toward the opposite end of the room, where he puts the box on the floor against the wall. His hands come up to show empty palms. “The door is unlocked,” he says evenly. “And you have a clear path to it. You’re welcome to use that phone in your pocket too. If you don’t have 911 tied to a side button, you should.”
I swallow and try to process what’s happening, my pounding heart messing with my thoughts. Cullen stands still. Waiting. Watching. Doing nothing to spook me. I rub my face, feeling stupid. The man owns this place, and all he’s done upon discovering someone unexpectedly inside is raise his voice.
“I’m sorry.” His words are low and soft, but not weak.
I swallow again. Did Cullen just apologize? The man I’ve gotten to know doesn’t apologize. He’s a rude, sarcastic dick with a side order of occasional violence.
“I didn’t intend to frighten you,” he adds.
I comprehend that he’s not talking about tonight, but I don’t say anything to absolve him. I do, however, feel my breathing settle. “Eli was looking for you. Said you’ve been MIA lately.”
“Roger. I’ll get back to him.”
If that’s not an evasion, then I don’t know what is. Now that I’m calm enough to look closer, I grasp how haggard Cullen is, his piercing moss-green eyes rimmed with circles of fatigue. Sweat soaks the fabric of his shirt, which clings to chiseled muscle. It’s near one in the morning, and Cullen’s been working out. From the pale tint to his skin, it was punishing work too, not a light jog.
Almost against my better judgment, I find myself edging closer to him. “Are you all right?”
“Always.”
“I’d have thought you were a better liar than that.” I touch his arm, discovering the muscles coiled tightly beneath his skin. As if he hasn’t relaxed in hours. Days. “When did you sleep last, exactly?”
He shrugs a shoulder, scrutinizing my hand on his arm as if it’s the most fascinating spectacle he’s ever witnessed.
“Why not?” I hear my tone shifting, something inside me switching from prey mode into my professional skin. Investigative journalism isn’t all that different from medicine in some regard, working through layers of information to get to the truth.
“Can’t.”
“When’s the last time you ate?” I demand, getting another shrug in return. “Today?”
“Can we go back to the version of the evening where you’re scared of me and on your way out?” He is only half kidding.
I huff. Releasing Cullen’s arm, I raid the mini fridge that’s kept in the dispatch office, which is full of juice boxes and applesauce cups for patients. Kicking one of the wheeled chairs over to Cullen, I hand him both the items. “Drink. Eat.”
“Those are for patients,” he argues, but does take the offered chair. “I’m fine.”
“You look like hammered dog shit, Cullen. Eat the food.”
With an exasperated sigh, he pops open the apple sauce. Within two seconds, he’s inhaled the small jar and accepts another two from me without protest, color returning to him with the intake of sugar. It’s unexpectedly satisfying.
Grabbing the other wheeled chair, I settle myself beside him. There’s a low hum of energy between us, but it’s not the usual antagonism. More like camaraderie between two people who both have their demons.
“See? I’m not totally worthless, especially for a blonde,” I say.
“Never said you were. And you’re not a blonde.”
I blink at him. “Of course I’m a blonde.”
“But it’s a different sort of blonde. There’s like”—he makes a swirling motion with his hand over my head—“red in there too.”
I huff a small chuckle, fingering my hair. Of all things for Cullen to have noticed, this isn’t one I’d expected. “It’s called strawberry, genius.” My smile falters as I point my chin at his hands. “What did you hit, Cullen?” I really hope it’s a what and not a who.
He moves his fingers around. “A few trees. A door. A wall.”
“What kind of wall?”
His eyes meet mine, the green in them laced with fire and challenge. And a hint of vulnerability that’s gone as soon as I see it. “Brick,” he snaps.
I frown at the shift in Cullen’s tone, which feels like a manufactured kind of angry. As if the man is trying to shove me away on purpose. Like an injured bear. No, a wolf. Lithe and deadly and hurting.
“Why?” I ask.
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “It was the closest one around.”
“You know what I—”
“Go home, Reynolds,” he says in a tone that demands—expects—obedience. The kind that I’ve a feeling most everyone in this Trident-god-hero-worshiping town would heed without question. I think that’s how Cullen likes it, what makes it so easy for him to keep the world at arm’s length. Denton Valley sees exactly what Cullen Hunt shows it: a successful CEO, a philanthropist, a rescuer. A man in constant charge of his business and himself. Now that I look closer though, I see glimmers of pain behind that curtain of perfection.
Reaching out toward him, I pull Cullen’s hand into my lap, then run my thumb lightly over the injured knuckles. “I take it the brick won.”
With a quick squeeze to Cullen’s wrist, I get up long enough to retrieve a first aid kit and settle right back beside him, his split-knuckle hand heavy on my lap. Pulling out triple antibiotic, I debate how to spread it over the ripped-up flesh without hurting him.
Cullen chuckles without humor. “I’m not going to take your head off if the meds sting.”
I nod, focusing the next few minutes of my attention entirely on his hands, the abused knuckles swollen and clearly painful. “Are you going to take my head off for any other reason?” I ask without looking up.
“Not so long as I know it’s you I’m seeing.” His voice is so quiet, I’m not sure he meant to say the words aloud.
He’d said something similar about Charlie. Ileene had too. Who else would you be seeing, Cullen? Why?