50 - Kodiak
50
Kodiak
—
No guards stand outside the on-call room, which means she’s in the trauma unit. I’ll find her. But first, I need to smell, lick, and indulge.
Inside the room where she sleeps, I close the door, grab a pair of her leggings from the chair, and bury my face in the crotch.
Groaning, my eyes roll back in my head.
I lick the inside, lapping at the swath of fabric that rubs against her cunt. It’s not enough. Where are her panties?
Chewing on the garment, I scan the room, mindless, desperate.
She’s been living in this space for two weeks. I can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t fucking breathe without her and her intoxicating scent.
I drop the leggings and crawl onto the tiny bunk bed. My hands slide into the divot in the mattress left by her body. I inhale her sweat from the sheets and drag my face across her pillow.
Then I drop to my stomach and roll in her essence.
She would call me a caveman. But I’m more beast than man. I’m a predator. An animal.
I’m hers.
I press my nose against every piece of her I can find. Her bras. Her earbuds. Her lip balm on the nightstand.
I suck on her hair tie and pace into the bathroom.
Grabbing her toothbrush, I pop it in my mouth and step into the shower. Droplets of water cling to the walls. I collect the moisture in my hand and rub it across my face.
As I return the toothbrush, I spot a laundry bag on the floor behind the door. A temptation I can’t resist.
I spend some time in that bag, sniffing and gnawing on every enticing, Frankie-soaked pair of underwear.
Christ, I miss the taste of her, the sticky, wet feel of her against my mouth. I’m fucking starving without her.
With careful precision, I put the room back in order, returning everything where I found it.
Then I slip back into the hall and follow the scent of her trail.
The hills taught me the art of stalking, every movement calculated, every sense heightened. The biting cold honed my instincts, shaping me into the hunter I am.
Keeping to the shadows, I step silently, my footsteps muted against the hospital’s tiled floors. The antiseptic air does nothing to diminish her lingering essence.
Her sweet, cherry aroma reaches my nose before I hear her voice.
My heart pounds. I stay hidden, muscles bunched. My eyes scan the corridor, catching a glimpse of her red hair through a gap in an exam room door.
She pauses, sensing something, and glances over her shoulder.
My breath hitches, but I remain unseen, a shadow among shadows.
Her guards know I’m here but don’t bother to look my way. They’re used to me lurking. I’m one of them, only better. I would die for her.
My fingers twitch, longing to reach out, to touch her, to pull her close. But she’s working. I respect that and don’t want to disturb her.
She exits the exam room and strides down the corridor, her steps quickening.
I follow, my senses attuned to every nuance. Her heartbeat, her fragrance, the sound of her breathing—they guide me.
She rounds a corner, and I prowl silently after her.
I can track her through a blizzard, through the densest forest, across the most treacherous terrain. Here, in the sterile, controlled environment of the hospital, it’s too easy.
She stops again, her head turning slightly. She feels me. Our connection defies logic, an invisible thread that binds us together.
I miss her with a ferocity that borders on madness, my yearning a physical ache.
But I can endure pain, the scars on my back a constant reminder of that. Denver’s cruelty knew no bounds, and it forged me into the man I am today.
That life, those lessons, they serve me now.
I move closer, the distance between us shrinking. She pauses to talk to someone, her soft lilt swirling over my skin.
Then she’s on the move again, and I chase.
She’s my prey, but more than that, she’s my world. I’ll never let her go.
I stay with her until her shift ends. When she shuts herself in her room, I approach her guards.
It’s the same thing every day. They know what I’m going to demand before I open my mouth.
“We’ll call you if she leaves or receives visitors,” Stanley says.
I can storm in there, but she’ll tell me the same thing she told Leo last week.
Find your way back to Monty. Talk to someone about your childhood abuse. Then come back to me.
If I want to fix it, the problem isn’t in that room. It’s out there with Leo and Monty.
With great effort, I turn away and leave the hospital.
Monty is waiting when I step outside, his presence as commanding as ever.
He stands in the parking lot beside my motorcycle, cutting an imposing silhouette against the setting sun. But as I draw nearer, I see the unraveling.
His suit hangs in disarray, the once-immaculate fabric now rumpled and creased. His shirt is untucked, and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His hair looks finger-raked to hell, wild strands falling over his forehead.
His love for Frankie gouges new wrinkles on his face. Dark bruises shadow his eyes. Whiskers dust his chiseled jawline.
He misses her ruinously. It permeates from his very being.
But those arctic blue eyes haven’t lost their sharpness. They meet mine, and I nod in acknowledgment.
We may not always see eye to eye, but we have a common goal—to protect Frankie.
“How is she?” he asks, his voice hoarse and controlled.
“Safe.” I delete the final few feet to join him. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Neither will I.” A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. “Are we going to talk about this?”
“Are you ready to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Do you want to spend the rest of your miserable life without her?”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Then we’re going to fucking talk about it.” I straddle the bike. “Meet me at the distillery.”