“No.”
They briefly played tug-of-war, then, with a frustrated noise, she let the bag go.
“Fine, carry it then.” She stomped out and down the stairs.
He followed. In the living area, she snatched up her sketchbook, and a tin he guessed held paints and pens.
She radiated annoyance as they made their way downstairs.
But as they passed through her broken front door, her annoyance faded. He hated the frightened look in her eyes. He pressed a hand to the nape of her neck.
“You’re safe.”
“I’m never safe,” she whispered.
He gently squeezed, until she looked at him. “You’re safe with me.”
They stared at each other, then she pulled in a shuddering breath.
He saw how exhausted she was. “Come on.”
He led her into his place. In his kitchen, he put the kettle on, while she curled up on his couch. He made a mug of tea and brought it over.
“You don’t seem like a tea kind of man,” she said.
“My mom left it here.” He resisted the urge to stroke Savannah’s hair. “I’ll go and deal with your door.”
He saw the flash of fear at the idea of being alone, but she reeled it in. After another couple of seconds, she nodded.
“Stay here. I won’t be long.”
That got him another nod.
He got what he needed from his garage, and dealt with boarding up Savannah’s front door. He paused. Fuck. If he hadn’t heard the noises, if she’d played her music louder…
She was okay. He had to remind himself of that. He headed back upstairs to find her curled in a ball on the couch, asleep.
She’d untied her hair, and the golden, loose curls spilled everywhere. He sat beside her and touched one of those silken curls.
Shit. What was this woman doing to him? He suddenly realized that he could happily sit here and watch her sleep soundly and safely.
That wasn’t stalker-ish at all. He scooped her up and her eyes snapped open.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m taking you to bed.”
“Hunter.” Her body relaxed and her eyes drifted closed again.
Warmth filling his chest, he carried her upstairs, then hesitated at the door to the guest room.
The bed wasn’t made. Yeah, it was a lame excuse, but totally legit. He wanted her in his bed. Wanted her close.
In the shadowed master bedroom, he set her down on the bed.
Her hand shot out. “Don’t go. Please.”
“I won’t, baby. I’m right here.”
He climbed in and wrapped his body around hers. “Sleep now.”
Savannah woke up, then froze. She had no idea where she was.
Her pulse jumped like a frightened cat.
She heard steady breathing, and felt a hard, very male body behind her. It was wrapped protectively around her.
Hunter.
She barely knew him, but she’d know the feel and smell of him anywhere.
The events of the night rushed back at her. God. She swallowed. Her throat was sore, and she touched it gently and winced.
Hunt came awake like he hadn’t even been asleep. “You in pain?”
All Savannah could see in the morning light peeking around the blinds was his bare chest. A huge expanse of bronze skin over hard muscles. The detective did not conform to any sort of doughnut-eating-cop stereotype.
He had sleek muscles everywhere—ridges down his abdomen that begged to be traced, along with a little happy trail of brown hair. And she really, really wanted to explore the ink on his left arm. It was the only part of him that was tattooed.
She would never have picked Detective Hunter Morgan to have ink under his sensible suits.
“Savannah?”
She tore her gaze off him. “It hurts a little.”
“Here.” He reached for something on the bedside table, then held out pills and a glass of water.
She swallowed the pills with a grimace, then lay back on the pillows.
Hunt lay down beside her, propped up on one arm, which made the muscles in his bicep flex.
She swallowed a groan.
Then, those long, strong fingers she’d admired, stroked her neck. Gently. So gently.
“The bruises look terrible,” he said.
“Great,” she muttered.
He stroked higher. “When I catch the asshole…”
Pure rage vibrated through his voice. Shit, what would he do to the guy? She didn’t want Hunt to get into any trouble.
“Hunter—”
“Shh.” He shifted, moving over her. His lips brushed her bruises.
Oh, God. Warmth flashed through her body. How long had it been, since anyone had touched her like this, since anyone had cared about her?
Tears pricked her eyes. He kept laying butterfly-like kisses on her neck. She slid a hand into his brown hair and arched her head back. Such a small touch, but she felt it all the way through her body.
“I hate seeing these bruises on you,” Hunt murmured. “I hate knowing he hurt you, and that if I hadn’t have heard, hadn’t have been fast enough, he might’ve—”
“Hey.” She tugged his head up. God, he was handsome. Not in that clean-cut, movie star way. No, Hunt was rugged, all-male. “You saved me.” Tears threatened. Horrified, she dashed them away. “God, why am I crying?”
His hands pressed either side of her, his face close. “I don’t know. Why?”
The emotions in her coalesced. She’d been alone and scared for so long now. This rugged, protective man cared. For some reason, she mattered. It hit her right in the heart.
“Because you give a shit. No one has for a long time. Because I hate being scared.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Because I never cry.”
He pulled her against his chest. She pressed her cheek to his pec, and pulled in a shuddering breath.
“So cry. I’ve got you.” His arms closed around her, his deep voice rumbled under her ear.
She knew she shouldn’t. She knew that leaning on him, something that felt so good, would hurt more in the long run when she didn’t have it anymore.
But the tears fell. She couldn’t stop them.
She clung to Hunt and sobs welled up.
Savannah let her grief loose. Grief at everything she’d lost, everything that had been taken from her: safety, security, a chance to share her art, her family, life, love.
She wept against Hunt and one big hand cupped the back of her head. He held her tight. Right here, right now, she was safe. She didn’t have the strength to pull away from him.
Finally, the storm ended. She rested against him.
“If you trust me, Savannah, I can help you.”
She squeezed her eyes close. No, he couldn’t. Her stalker was too cunning and too dangerous.
“Sorry to cry all over you.”
Hunt sighed, and stroked her back. “Go and have a hot shower. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
She pulled back and swiped her cheeks. “For a man, the tears didn’t seem to rattle you too much.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Tears, especially female ones, used to panic me. I only have brothers, remember? But I’ve been in the job too long now, and I’ve seen a lot of people cry.”
Her belly clenched. He’d probably seen plenty of weeping women.