Page 25 of Hunted By Wraith

“I guess Dario and I will take care of the body,” Keir mutters, rolling his eyes.

I grunt, not giving a damn about the corpse behind me.

“There’s an apartment upstairs. We’ll meet there.”

Dario strides over, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “See you soon, precious.”

She laughs, but it’s wheezy. Weak.

That’s all it takes.

I carry her up the stairs, following her soft directions until we reach the apartment. It’s luxurious for a place above a warehouse—open floor plan, sleek furniture, and a long hallway leading to several rooms.

“Last door on the right,” she murmurs. “I can handle it from there.”

I don’t respond, just push open the bedroom door and walk straight into the attached bathroom.

The moment I set her down, she stumbles.

A growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it. My hands curl into fists. Mine to protect. Mine to care for.

She meets my gaze and—the audacity—rolls her eyes.

Then she turns toward the shower and almost face-plants.

I lunge, catching her before she crashes.

“Yeah, sure, you can handle it,” I mutter.

Lifting her again, I place her on the counter. She huffs but doesn’t fight me.

I turn on the shower, letting the steam fill the space, then kneel before her, pulling off her boots and socks.

She watches me the entire time, unblinking.

I stand, my hands going to the hem of her shirt.

“May I?” Her breath catches. Pupils dilate. A small nod.

My little moon, at a loss for words.

I peel her shirt away, and for the first time in years, I have to breathe.

Not because of her beauty—though fuck me, she’s stunning—but because of the bruises.

Purple marks staining her ribs. Finger-shaped imprints around her throat. The stitches, torn slightly, blood trickling from the fresh bullet wound and the grazes in process of healing.

I place my hands on the counter beside her, closing my eyes.

Memories threaten to drag me under.

Breathe, motherfucker. Breathe.

A small, delicate hand cups my cheek. Electricity jolts through me.

I open my eyes to find hers—stormy, steady, watching me.

“I’m okay,” she whispers. “Just a little beat up. I’ve had worse.”