a big enough deficit when it came to the personality department. God only knew he didn't need to dig himself any deeper.
Still, he wasn't giving in without an argument. "You didn't have a problem with me touching you before," he rasped, holding her with his stare.
Her cheeks burned brighter, lashes shielding her gaze. "That was a dream," she whispered. "It wasn't real."
Ian eyed her throat with a meaningful glance and lifted his brows. But he didn't argue.
Reason, though slow, was finally returning, and with it an uneasiness, a mounting fear, that he couldn't ignore.
Face it, Buchanan. You pose as much of a threat to her safety as that murdering-asshole-monster, his conscience snarled, pissing him off.
His sudden anger must have bled into his expression, because she shivered, her gaze sliding away, shifting lower, and she gasped. One slender hand moved to his arm, hovering over the claw marks slashing his left bicep, the angry slices mottled with drying blood. "Those need to be cleaned," she whispered.
Ian rolled his shoulder, trying to dispel the sexual hunger still riding him hard. He cleared his throat, and there was a gruff, frustrated edge to his voice as he said, "They're not serious.
Bled a lot at first, but they're about done."
Her gaze lifted back to his. "You need to tell me what happened, but right now it's more important that we get you cleaned up. The hot water doesn't last long in this place, but there should be enough for you to take a shower. Then I'll get something on these cuts."
"I'd argue about you managing me," he replied in a low rumble, the corner of his mouth twitching with a reluctant grin, his hands still clutching her hips, "but I'm too tired."
Her slender brows lifted in challenge. "Good, because I'd win."
Ian studied her for a moment, recognizing an inner core of steely, stubborn strength that he wouldn't have expected from her, though he supposed he should have, considering she'd stood up to him from the moment they'd met--even faced him down after that first dream.
And she was still here--proof that he hadn't been able to intimidate her into leaving town.
Shaking his head, his grin slowly shifted into a wry smile. "Yeah, I have a feeling you would.
So I'll be a good boy and do as I'm told."
Reaching for the hem of his tattered shirt, he winced when the cuts on his side pulled with the movement. "Here," she said, brushing his hands aside and taking over the task, "let me help you get this off."
"Thanks," he groaned, his voice muffled beneath the wet shirt that covered his face.
The moment it cleared his head, he saw that her eyes had darkened with concern, that lambent gaze focused on the claw marks cutting across his ribs. "God, it really got you."
Ian snorted, looking forward to that hot shower, needing it to relieve the stiffness in his muscles that he suspected came more from the fight he'd put up against the darkness...against the beast inside of him, than the one he'd had with the Casus. "I was lucky it didn't take my head off."
Concern sharpened her gaze. "That bad?"
"Yeah," he muttered, the exhaustion crowding in on him again, weighing heavily around his shoulders like a yoke. "And it's still out there somewhere, so I don't suppose I have to tell you not to go near the window or door without me."
"I know. And if I hear anything, I'll knock on the bathroom door and let you know." Stepping back, she gestured toward the small kitchenette attached through a narrow archway. "I have a first-aid kit that I always carry when I travel. I'll set it up in there while you shower."
"Thanks." He reached out to grab her wrist when she started to move away, and before he could stop himself, Ian heard himself saying, "Which one did you like better?"
She shook her head, silken curls grazing her shoulder. "What do you mean? Which one what?"
"The dreams?" he pressed in a low, husky voice. "Which one was better?"
MOLLY TOOK A QUICK, inaudible breath, and his gaze slipped from her
Still, he wasn't giving in without an argument. "You didn't have a problem with me touching you before," he rasped, holding her with his stare.
Her cheeks burned brighter, lashes shielding her gaze. "That was a dream," she whispered. "It wasn't real."
Ian eyed her throat with a meaningful glance and lifted his brows. But he didn't argue.
Reason, though slow, was finally returning, and with it an uneasiness, a mounting fear, that he couldn't ignore.
Face it, Buchanan. You pose as much of a threat to her safety as that murdering-asshole-monster, his conscience snarled, pissing him off.
His sudden anger must have bled into his expression, because she shivered, her gaze sliding away, shifting lower, and she gasped. One slender hand moved to his arm, hovering over the claw marks slashing his left bicep, the angry slices mottled with drying blood. "Those need to be cleaned," she whispered.
Ian rolled his shoulder, trying to dispel the sexual hunger still riding him hard. He cleared his throat, and there was a gruff, frustrated edge to his voice as he said, "They're not serious.
Bled a lot at first, but they're about done."
Her gaze lifted back to his. "You need to tell me what happened, but right now it's more important that we get you cleaned up. The hot water doesn't last long in this place, but there should be enough for you to take a shower. Then I'll get something on these cuts."
"I'd argue about you managing me," he replied in a low rumble, the corner of his mouth twitching with a reluctant grin, his hands still clutching her hips, "but I'm too tired."
Her slender brows lifted in challenge. "Good, because I'd win."
Ian studied her for a moment, recognizing an inner core of steely, stubborn strength that he wouldn't have expected from her, though he supposed he should have, considering she'd stood up to him from the moment they'd met--even faced him down after that first dream.
And she was still here--proof that he hadn't been able to intimidate her into leaving town.
Shaking his head, his grin slowly shifted into a wry smile. "Yeah, I have a feeling you would.
So I'll be a good boy and do as I'm told."
Reaching for the hem of his tattered shirt, he winced when the cuts on his side pulled with the movement. "Here," she said, brushing his hands aside and taking over the task, "let me help you get this off."
"Thanks," he groaned, his voice muffled beneath the wet shirt that covered his face.
The moment it cleared his head, he saw that her eyes had darkened with concern, that lambent gaze focused on the claw marks cutting across his ribs. "God, it really got you."
Ian snorted, looking forward to that hot shower, needing it to relieve the stiffness in his muscles that he suspected came more from the fight he'd put up against the darkness...against the beast inside of him, than the one he'd had with the Casus. "I was lucky it didn't take my head off."
Concern sharpened her gaze. "That bad?"
"Yeah," he muttered, the exhaustion crowding in on him again, weighing heavily around his shoulders like a yoke. "And it's still out there somewhere, so I don't suppose I have to tell you not to go near the window or door without me."
"I know. And if I hear anything, I'll knock on the bathroom door and let you know." Stepping back, she gestured toward the small kitchenette attached through a narrow archway. "I have a first-aid kit that I always carry when I travel. I'll set it up in there while you shower."
"Thanks." He reached out to grab her wrist when she started to move away, and before he could stop himself, Ian heard himself saying, "Which one did you like better?"
She shook her head, silken curls grazing her shoulder. "What do you mean? Which one what?"
"The dreams?" he pressed in a low, husky voice. "Which one was better?"
MOLLY TOOK A QUICK, inaudible breath, and his gaze slipped from her
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