Fierce(25)

I snatch a few rolls of toilet paper standing on the table and rip some off. I grab a stool standing in the corner and sit down next to him. Dabbing the cotton against his face, I check if his nose is really broken. He winces when I touch him, but doesn’t cry out in pain. He refuses to show me any pain.

How very noble of him.

“I have to call an ambulance,” I say.

I turn to fetch my cell phone from my purse, but Hunter grabs my wrist and stops me from moving.

“Don’t. I don’t want to go there. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the cops will be asking questions, and I don’t want to answer them.” His nostrils flare and he cracks his knuckles.

I smash my lips together out of frustration. “But you’re hurt.”

“Please …” he says.

He looks genuinely worried. As if he’s afraid, or something. And it sounds like he’s begging me.

“All right.”

He visibly relaxes, his muscles straining less.

I sit back down on the stool and tend to him. He keeps his eyes solely on me, while I inspect his nose. It’s not broken, luckily. I clean his face gently, making sure I don’t press too hard on his bruises. I open the faucet, poor some cold water over a handful of paper, and wipe the blood from his face.

My vision is blurry, though. I don’t have my glasses anymore. They got thwacked off during the fight, and we had to run before I could search for them. Dammit, this would be so much easier with my glasses.

Hunter just sits there, studying me, breathing in and out like he’s trying to calm down. His chest heaves, and he coughs again. “God … it’s hot in here.”

“No, it’s not.” I put my hand on his forehead and don’t feel an unusual temperature. He must still be overheated from the fight.

Then he hooks his fingers under his vest and pulls it over his head.

Oh. My. God.

My pupils dilate as he takes off the top half of his clothes, leaving only bare skin for me to see. I try not to look too dumbstruck when he throws it to the floor and gazes back at me. But I can’t stop my eyes from zoning in on his perfect body.

Those thick pectorals, solid abs, and huge biceps draw my attention like a bee that has found his flower. Especially those V-lines …

My God. I can’t stop staring.

My heart is thudding in my chest, and my throat is dry. I swallow away the lump in my throat. I have to fight the urge to touch those deliciously taut muscles.

I’ve never actually seen anyone this strong and lean before. Well, at least not partially naked.

He lets out a groan as he moves his body to sit more comfortably. The raw, masculine sound sends shivers down my spine.

But when I look at him, I feel bad. He looks busted and bruised all over, and I feel sorry for him.

It’s my fault he’s hurt.

He protected me. He was the one who saved me. He got into a fight for me.

The least I can do is mend his wounds.

“Be right back,” I say, and I rush out of the bathroom.

I make my way to my own dorm room and find it empty. Evie must still be studying somewhere, which means I won’t be bothered for some time.

Good.

I need to fix Hunter’s wounds and I can’t have anyone distracting me right now.

Rummaging through my closet, I find the first aid kit I stocked for emergency cases such as these. I take out the entire box and hurry back to Hunter.

He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, holding his own head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he says quietly as the bleeding starts again.

“I’ve got this,” I say, and throw all the contents of the box in the sink. It’s at times like these that I’m glad my mother taught me all the things I need to know so that I’d be independent.

First I take the bottle of pure alcohol and drown a few cotton balls in it.

When I turn around and sit down again, he stares up at me, waiting for me to do something.

“This’ll hurt. A lot,” I say before I dab the cotton balls against the wounds on his face.

He hisses. “Fuck! Jesus Christ! What are you doing?”

Slamming his fist against the wall next to us, he lets out a huge breath. I almost jolt up from the noise. He’s so aggressive and angry. Sometimes it scares me.

“Cleaning your wound with alcohol.”

He calms down once I’m done. I grab a few dressings and cover up his slashes with them. Then I start wrapping a bandage around his head.

“Do I have to wear this?” he says when I’m almost done.

“Yes. You’ve got a big gash on your forehead. Doesn’t look pretty. It needs to heal.”

He groans, annoyed.

“How are your knuckles?” I ask, because I know they must hurt after all those punches.