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Authors: Touch of Surrender
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sliding her a hard smile.
“I could have just taken someone else with me and left
you out of the loop completely,” she drawled, almost as if purposefully goading
him. “So why don’t you drop the jackass routine and be thankful that I’m
letting you come along?”
“Thankful?” he choked out, amazed she had the audacity
to stand up to him. Not that he could fault her for it, since he would have
reacted the same way. He also couldn’t deny that it was sexy as hell.
“Yeah, thankful. As in you should be appreciative of the
fact that I’m willing to take your crap for Kellan’s sake. You might try out
the concept of gratitude sometime. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of
here.”
She turned to leave, her hand already on the door
handle, when he said, “Damn it, Morgan. Stop.”
“Send me a text if you want to meet for breakfast,”
she threw over her shoulder.
“Christ, will you just stop? You’re bleeding.”
Kierland chalked up the gruffness of his voice to anger, because it sure as
hell wasn’t concern.
And just who am I trying to fool?
Shaking his head, he watched as she stopped in the
open doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Bleeding? Where?”
“Below your left shoulder blade. It’s already soaked
through your shirt.”
“Crap.” She frowned, her voice soft as she said, “I love
this shirt.”
He shook his head again, torn between exasperation and
the fact that she was utterly adorable in that moment, though he’d have cut out
his tongue before he admitted it. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and it’s
the shirt you’re worried about?”
“I’m a woman,” she grumbled. “I care about my clothes.
So sue me.”
“The jackals must have gotten you with one of their
claws. You need to have it bandaged.”
She turned her head to the side, but not before he
caught the warm flush that crept up her face. “Don’t worry about it,” she said
huskily. “I’ll live.”
“I’ve got my first aid kit,” he told her, heading
toward his bag. He’d left the leather bag sitting on the bench at the foot of
the massive bed that was covered in acres of raw silk, and his kit was always
stored in a side pocket whenever he traveled. “Take off your shirt and I’ll put
something on the cut.”
She snorted, her voice choked as she responded, “I
don’t think so.”
With his kit in the battered, but healing hand that
he’d smashed against the brick wall of the garage, Kierland walked toward her.
“Either you do it, or I’m doing it for you.”
“Over my dead body,” she drawled, lifting her brows.
“Damn it, I’m not coming on to you.” Gruff, controlled
words that made her eyes go wide again. “I just want to see your back,” he
added, motioning for her to turn around. “Go into the bathroom.”
“I’m hardly going to be felled by a scratch.” She
didn’t sound happy—sounded embarrassed, even—but she did as he said. He
followed her to the opulent bathroom, the warm midnight blue tiles and marble
counter and sinks seeming to fit her style a hell of a lot better than they fit
his. Kierland didn’t know why he chose to stay in this particular hotel, since
he always felt out of place, afraid he was going to accidentally break
something if he wasn’t careful.
Pulling the heavy length of her hair over her opposite
shoulder, she turned and gave him her back, then began to lift her shirt. Kierland
knew he should offer to help her, since the action was no doubt pulling on the
wound. But he was locked in place, held transfixed by the sight of her naked
back as she lifted the shirt higher…higher. Smooth muscles flowed up the length
of her spine, supple and lean, the delicate lace band of her bra almost the
same color as her flesh. The slice from the jackal’s claws was long and
shallow, slashing across her left shoulder, the crimson line making him wish he
could tear into the bastards all over again.
Finally shaking himself out of his daze,
“I could have just taken someone else with me and left
you out of the loop completely,” she drawled, almost as if purposefully goading
him. “So why don’t you drop the jackass routine and be thankful that I’m
letting you come along?”
“Thankful?” he choked out, amazed she had the audacity
to stand up to him. Not that he could fault her for it, since he would have
reacted the same way. He also couldn’t deny that it was sexy as hell.
“Yeah, thankful. As in you should be appreciative of the
fact that I’m willing to take your crap for Kellan’s sake. You might try out
the concept of gratitude sometime. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of
here.”
She turned to leave, her hand already on the door
handle, when he said, “Damn it, Morgan. Stop.”
“Send me a text if you want to meet for breakfast,”
she threw over her shoulder.
“Christ, will you just stop? You’re bleeding.”
Kierland chalked up the gruffness of his voice to anger, because it sure as
hell wasn’t concern.
And just who am I trying to fool?
Shaking his head, he watched as she stopped in the
open doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Bleeding? Where?”
“Below your left shoulder blade. It’s already soaked
through your shirt.”
“Crap.” She frowned, her voice soft as she said, “I love
this shirt.”
He shook his head again, torn between exasperation and
the fact that she was utterly adorable in that moment, though he’d have cut out
his tongue before he admitted it. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and it’s
the shirt you’re worried about?”
“I’m a woman,” she grumbled. “I care about my clothes.
So sue me.”
“The jackals must have gotten you with one of their
claws. You need to have it bandaged.”
She turned her head to the side, but not before he
caught the warm flush that crept up her face. “Don’t worry about it,” she said
huskily. “I’ll live.”
“I’ve got my first aid kit,” he told her, heading
toward his bag. He’d left the leather bag sitting on the bench at the foot of
the massive bed that was covered in acres of raw silk, and his kit was always
stored in a side pocket whenever he traveled. “Take off your shirt and I’ll put
something on the cut.”
She snorted, her voice choked as she responded, “I
don’t think so.”
With his kit in the battered, but healing hand that
he’d smashed against the brick wall of the garage, Kierland walked toward her.
“Either you do it, or I’m doing it for you.”
“Over my dead body,” she drawled, lifting her brows.
“Damn it, I’m not coming on to you.” Gruff, controlled
words that made her eyes go wide again. “I just want to see your back,” he
added, motioning for her to turn around. “Go into the bathroom.”
“I’m hardly going to be felled by a scratch.” She
didn’t sound happy—sounded embarrassed, even—but she did as he said. He
followed her to the opulent bathroom, the warm midnight blue tiles and marble
counter and sinks seeming to fit her style a hell of a lot better than they fit
his. Kierland didn’t know why he chose to stay in this particular hotel, since
he always felt out of place, afraid he was going to accidentally break
something if he wasn’t careful.
Pulling the heavy length of her hair over her opposite
shoulder, she turned and gave him her back, then began to lift her shirt. Kierland
knew he should offer to help her, since the action was no doubt pulling on the
wound. But he was locked in place, held transfixed by the sight of her naked
back as she lifted the shirt higher…higher. Smooth muscles flowed up the length
of her spine, supple and lean, the delicate lace band of her bra almost the
same color as her flesh. The slice from the jackal’s claws was long and
shallow, slashing across her left shoulder, the crimson line making him wish he
could tear into the bastards all over again.
Finally shaking himself out of his daze,
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