A jacket he had yet to notice. The moment his gaze dropped to the gaping hole in what hopefully was not his favorite fashion statement, his eyes began to blacken again, just barely, the reaction clearly controlled by emotion. He pulled her closer again and tore it open. Looking for any injuries. Sliding his hand over her stomach and her rib cage and her—
“I’m okay,” she said, pushing at his hands and trying to close the jacket. Her cheeks were wet and now burned with embarrassment. And industrial cleaner. And black salt. She could only imagine what they looked like.
He took her by the arms and asked, “Why the fuck would you do that?”
She hiccupped before answering. “I was trying to find out what it wanted.”
He jerked her closer until their faces were centimeters apart. His was the picture of rage when he asked, “Why the fuck would you have Rune hold me like that?”
She tried to squirm out of his grasp. She failed. “You… You heard me?”
“I heard you.” He jerked again, but he did it in such a way as to not hurt her. It was more for show. His muscles and tendons corded with the effort, an effort she imagined was born more out of his desire not to hurt her than vice versa. “I heard everything. I just couldn’t do anything about it.” His jaw clenched in anger, he let her go as though disgusted with her. “You had no right to do that.”
“I know.” She had violated him. Entered his mind without permission. She’d vowed never to do that years ago and now… He had every reason to be livid. Then again, so did she. “I get it. I had no right. But you had no right not to tell me what happened to you. Not after everything we’d been through. You just left.” Her voice cracked, and she turned to go through the duffle bag. She found a T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats with a drawstring and started stripping. “You left me.” She lifted the torn T-shirt over her head, suddenly uncaring of what he saw and what he didn’t. Clearly, she disgusted him. She fought the trembling of her traitorous lower lip as she slipped on his T-shirt. It was tan with the words Blue Sun on it and Chinese characters underneath. “They took you, yes, and I can’t even imagine what you went through, but you decided to write me off without even talking to me.” She kicked off her boots. “Without an explanation. Without even saying goodbye.” She peeled her panties and leggings down over her hips and kicked them off. Her skin had pinkened where the cleaner had soaked through.
She wasn’t worried about flashing anyone. His windows were so dark, an onlooker would literally have to press their face to the glass to see inside. It was dark and cool and safe.
He got into the truck and closed the door, forcing her to scoot over. But he had crap everywhere. A medical kit. A crossbow. Books, file folders, and a laptop. She shifted some of the items onto the floorboard as he grabbed the duffle bag, looking for another shirt since the cleaner had soaked through his shirt, too.
“You decided not to tell me anything. You were just…gone.”
“It was best for everyone.”
She turned on him, furious. “No, Quentin. It was best for you.” She found a pre-moistened wipe in the first-aid kit and ripped it open with her teeth. “We’d been best friends for years, and then bam. You just left. The country, as it turned out. So, you can absolutely kiss my ass.”
Apparently not finding the shirt he was looking for, he shoved the duffle bag into the front seat and sat back. He put an elbow on the armrest and a fist at his mouth as he looked out the window, the blue of his irises glistening in the New Mexico sun. “I didn’t want you to see any of that.”
She wiped down her stomach and lower extremities then stopped to look at him. He had to change his shirt and possibly the bandages. Industrial cleaners on open wounds could not be good.
“We need to check your injuries.” She slipped a leg into the sweats. “Did carrying me rip anything open?”
He shook his head as she slid the other leg in and then leaned back to lift her hips off the seat and pull the sweats on. They were far too big. The drawstring would help, but it had a knot she couldn’t get untied, so she couldn’t pull it tighter.
“I didn’t want you to see me there. Like that.” The muscle in his jaw jumped as he worked it. “Rune had no right to show you.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure Rune had a choice.” And she wasn’t. Her powers of persuasion were pretty persuasive. Drawing the string tighter so the sweats would hopefully not fall, even though she couldn’t tie it, she got onto her knees and started lifting his shirt over his head. He reared back and looked at her as if she were crazy. “We need to check your bandages. Don’t worry. You can still be mad at me.” She tugged the T-shirt over his head, mussing his hair even more. Multiplying his adorable factor tenfold. Damn it.
He looked down and ran a hand over the gauze. “See? It didn’t even soak through.”
She sat back on her heels, now recognizing some of the scars. The heartbreaking images Rune had shown her flashed in her mind as she remembered where each scar originated. A line across his chest was from a scalpel. A small circle in his shoulder was from a bullet wound. A patch of marred skin was from an acid burn, though that one was kind of his fault.
But it was the scars on his wrists that stole her breath. She lifted his right wrist to her mouth and kissed the inside where the scars were. From when he had tried to take his life just to get it all to stop. Rune had healed him. Over and over again. She took the left one and did the same, shattering when she thought about what he had gone through. Then she ran her fingers along some of the other marks as the stinging in her eyes sent a fat drop spilling over her lashes.
He stilled and watched her with a wary gaze. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” he said, and she marveled again at how well he spoke. At how much she’d missed him. At how much she still wanted him desperately, despite everything. That demon could’ve killed her, and Quentin would’ve never known what he’d meant to her. What he still meant.
She leaned forward and brushed her mouth over a razor-thin scar on his shoulder. Then one on his neck. Then up to the cut on his cheek, feathering a soft kiss along his sculpted jaw.
He clutched the armrest with one hand and kept the other clenched at his side as though afraid to move.
Amber tried to remember that she disgusted him. She tried to remember that she hadn’t been worthy of even a salty goodbye. And that he probably didn’t enjoy her ministrations. But her memory seemed to be on the fritz.
She leaned back and looked at him. His handsome face, still so young and yet hardened. His full mouth framed by scruffy, dark-blond growth. His broad shoulders on which the weight of the world sat. He was so stunningly handsome. So painfully beautiful.
“You have to stop me,” she said, running her hand over a wide shoulder and along the hills and valleys of his biceps. Lean and muscular, he was part human, part predator.
Poor guy had almost died less than an hour ago, and she was trying to have her way with him. If he’d wanted her, wouldn’t he have made the first move? Perhaps, but he owed her the words. He owed her closure.
“Tell me you don’t want me.” Her hand slid over his bandages, caressing his rib cage and down to the waistband of his jeans. Despite the strong scent of industrial cleaner in the truck, she could smell him. His soap. She leaned forward to breathe in the woodsy scent, rich and warm like him. “Tell me you left me for a reason,” she said into his ear. She lowered her head to study the button and the zipper. The only two things standing between her and what she wanted most. “Tell me you don’t love me.” She pushed her fingertips into his jeans and released the button. “You never did.” She slid the zipper down. “You’ve been happier without me.” She pulled the two edges of his jeans apart, and the muscles in his abdomen contracted. “We will never work.” She plunged her hand inside and wrapped her fingers around his erection as he sucked in a sharp breath. “It was never meant to be.” She looked up at him and pleaded. “Just stop me already.”