Page 66 of Hunted By Fear

What the fuck is going on?

He lifts my leg and inspects the bottom of one foot before moving to the other, the frown on his lips deepening.

“It’s just a few cuts. I can take care of them,” I tell him, worried he’s upset about having to help me.

“No.” His voice is hard, and I get the feeling it’s meant to be final.

Not going to happen. I’ve had more than enough of a man trying to control me my whole life.

I snatch my foot from his grasp, and his eyes dart up to meet mine, blazing and black.

Well, he’s clearly upset.

“I can handle them,” I tell him, holding his gaze despite the urge to shrink away. I can’t explain it, but I know he won’t hurt me.

Quick as a whip, he reaches out and grabs my ankle again, yanking it hard enough that I fall back on the bed with an oomph.

“I’m the reason you broke the glass,” he growls, and I feel the vibration of his voice move through me with our proximity, but he keeps his gaze on my foot.

“You startled me. I wasn’t aware anyone else was up. It’s my fault for being so jumpy.” His eyes flick up to meet mine for a moment before they move back to my foot. He holds his freehand near the bottom of my foot, and my eyes go wide when it begins to glow.

“Wait…” I try to yank my foot free again, but he’s ready for it this time and doesn’t even budge. “Ah! Stop, oh my God, stop!”

The sensation of tiny pins and needles moves over my foot, and before I can stop myself, I kick out, catching him right in his unsuspecting face.

I gasp for air, then actually gasp when I realize what I’ve done.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you to stop.” I lean forward in an attempt to check on him, where he sits, unmoving on the floor, his hand holding his jaw.

“I…” I’m lost for words as my eyes move over this beautiful man who, according to Bast, was made for me.

He stands abruptly, moving toward the door, and I can’t look away even if I tried.

“I’ll get Bast to come and help you. I didn’t intend to scare you, Aerilyn, and I wasn’t going to harm you. I’d never hurt you.” His voice is dejected, sad, if I’m not mistaken, and it tugs at my heart.

“You didn’t scare me,” I say in a hurry as his hand closes around the doorknob, and it has the desired effect as he freezes. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me; it tickled. That’s why I told you to stop and why I kicked you in the face.” I want to die of embarrassment as I race to explain before I chicken out.

I kicked the devil in the face.

Without releasing the door, he turns to look at me, his eyes boring into mine as if looking for a lie, but he won’t find one.

It feels like forever, his eyes trailing over me like a physical thing, and I hold my breath against the urge to fidget or do other things.

When he finally lets his hand drop and moves back toward me, I let out a breath of relief, only to quickly realize that means he’s about to be right here again, so fucking close I can smell him.

He smells like smoke, fire, iron, and cinnamon… It shouldn’t smell as good as it does, but I’ll be damned if my mouth doesn’t water.

What is wrong with me?

My heart skips a beat as I watch him drop to his knees before me.

Lucifer is the king of this realm, so why is he on his knees before me, and why does that make my stomach feel like it’s full of butterflies?

Without a word, he holds out a hand to me, palm up; his skin is red as if stained from blood, but still looks soft, and I don’t give myself a moment to overthink it before I reach out, placing my hand in his tentatively.

Touching him is kind of what I picture touching a live wire would be like, minus the dying part. My breath catches as tingles run through me, and from the way he looks at me, I get the feeling I’m not the only one who feels it.

“I can heal you without touching your foot if that’s okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than I’ve heard it before, almost as if unsure.