Chapter 6
Chapter Six
T he officers had arrived quickly, and Hunt took them through the events of the evening as they all walked through Savannah’s place.
“Looks like he picked the lock on the front door,” Officer Charles said. “Did a good job of it, too. There’s little damage.”
Hunt grunted. He looked across Savannah’s living room. She was curled in the corner of the couch while Ryder finished checking her over.
Just the sight of the growing bruises on her neck was enough to stir Hunt’s slowly simmering rage.
“I don’t think we’ll get any prints,” Officer Charles added.
“No,” Hunt agreed. “The asshole wore gloves.”
“Well, we’ll run a check for any similar attacks and let you know. Sorry this happened to her.”
“Thanks, Charles.”
Hunt saw the officers out. Then he moved over to the couch.
Those turbulent, gray eyes locked on him.
As she watched him, she took a deep breath and relaxed a little. It was like she needed to see him to stay calm. He liked knowing that because he was there, it steadied her.
Fuck if that wasn’t a good feeling.
“She needs rest,” Ryder said. “We’ve iced her neck. The painkillers will take the edge off. There’s nothing broken or damaged, so time will do the rest.”
“Thanks, Ryder,” Hunt said.
“Sure thing, bro.” Ryder met his gaze. You’ve got this?
I’ve got this.
Ryder gave him a chin lift. Keep her safe.
After Hunt’s brother packed up his black bag, he gently touched a finger to Savannah’s cheekbone, then headed out.
Savannah curled into a tighter ball. “I don’t know why someone would do this. That asshole!”
It was nice to see some color in her cheeks.
She looked scared, mad, and frustrated all mixed together. She looked up at him and tucked a curl back behind her ear. “Thanks, Hunter. If you hadn’t come in…” She looked at the floor.
The bastard would’ve killed her. Hunt’s gut went tight. “You’re moving in with me.”
Her head jerked up, her eyes popped wide. “What?”
“You aren’t safe alone. I’ll board up the door for tonight, then call someone to repair it tomorrow.”
“So I’ll stay with you just for tonight?”
“No. Until I’m satisfied you’re safe. You have any idea who’d target you?”
She looked away, staring blindly out the window.
“Savannah?”
She looked back, wary.
“You know I’m a detective?” he said.
She nodded.
“I know when someone’s lying, or not telling me the entire truth.”
She bit her lip, then pulled in a deep breath. “I swear that I don’t know that man who attacked me. I promise you.”
Damn, Hunt believed her. “But there’s another one out there, who’s after you.”
She looked away again, shoulders slumping. She looked so tired.
Hunt felt a violent urge to not only protect her, but to look after her. “Come on. Let’s grab some clothes, and whatever else you’re going to need at my place.”
She rose and moved to the stairs up to her bedroom. He followed her, and when she stopped at the door to her room abruptly, he tensed.
“Um, I can pack some things myself—”
“I’m not leaving you alone.” He reached past her and snapped the light on.
He figured she’d left it messy. Maybe she had underwear strewn all over the floor?
Instead, he saw the large canvas leaning against the wall and froze.
It was stunning, and erotic as hell. It was done in a fascinating style, with daubs of paint, giving it a dreamy quality. A man, still clothed, holding a naked, blonde woman. Her sensuous body was tipped back, his mouth at her breast.
Fuck . It was him . And Savannah.
She made a beeline to the closet, avoiding looking at him. Hunt stared at the painting. It was beautiful, sexy. His cock stirred.
He wanted it.
Like how he wanted Savannah Cole.
But right now, he needed her safe.
She came back with a large, black overnight bag.
“I want to buy the painting,” he said.
“It’s not for sale.”
“It’s mine. And we both know it.” He took the bag from her.
“It’s not you,” she said.
“Don’t lie,” he said. “You need anything else?”
She looked lost. She touched her throat and winced.
The sight of her developing bruises stirred his rage and protective instincts again. He wanted that fear and uncertainty off her face. She needed a distraction.
“What about your toy?” he asked.
She blinked. “My what?”
He waved to the bedside table. “Your toy. I heard you use it. My bed is on the other side of that wall.”
“ What? ” It wasn’t quite a screech, but it was close. Color filled her cheeks.
Yep, that was much better than the fear and worry.
She stalked over to him, and tried to grab her bag. “What I do in my own bedroom is none of your business, Detective. Now, give me the bag. I’ll carry it.”
“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.
His fingers brushed her jaw. She felt it down to her toes.
“But something tells me yours are a gift. One you’ve never shared with anyone.”
Danger . She bit her lip. Danger, danger . The man was one giant risk to her: mind, body, and soul.
“I’ll hit the shower,” she said.
He nodded. “You’re coming with me to the station today.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Until I’m satisfied that you aren’t in danger.”
“I can’t just hang at the station.”
He rose, big and handsome, and that bare chest with a light covering of dark hair was distracting. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Hunt—”
“You call me Hunter,” he growled.
She pulled in a deep breath. “Hunter, what will I do at the station all day?”
“Bring your sketchbook. Your paints. I’ll be following up on your attack.” He tilted his head. “You’re sure you don’t know who it was or why they attacked you?”
It hadn’t been Walkson. “I truly have no idea.”
Hunt waited a beat, then nodded. “I’ll shower in the guest bathroom, and then meet you in the kitchen.”
He stalked out, and her gaze dropped to his muscular ass clad in those loose shorts.
Finally, she dragged herself into the bathroom.
It was as neat and tidy as the rest of Hunt’s place.
The mirror informed her that she had dark circles under her eyes, but she barely noticed them, thanks to the bruises on her neck.
Holy cow. She stroked the skin there—it was purple and black. Ugh . At least thanks to the pain pills, she wasn’t hurting much.
Right, shower time, then breakfast. If she took too long, her bossy detective would come looking for her. She turned on the shower.
He’s not yours, Savannah.
He will never be yours.
She stepped under the water.
If he isn’t mine, why am I naked in his shower after sleeping with him half the night?
She pressed a hand to the tiles. Shut up, brain.
But Savannah was far more worried about her heart.
She had to leave soon, and the thought of never seeing Hunter Morgan again—never knowing the feel of his hands, the taste of his skin, the thrust of his cock—it hurt.
She groaned. She had to leave. Soon.