Page 86 of Hunt Me

“Runner beans.” I point to the other row. “And right here will be radishes.”

“In coffins.” It’s not really a question, but I can’t tell by his tone if it’s a statement.

I turn to study his expression. His cheeks are flushed and pretty, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue, but he looks happier. He looks less afraid than he has in the weeks that I’ve been watching.

“Are you surprised?” I ask.

“No,” he says, then bursts into laughter, covering his mouth with one hand. His eyes are bright, and it makes me feel happy and horny, and I want to pin him right here against the coffin garden and fuck him limp and breathless.

But I’m not sure he’s strong enough for that yet.

The last rays of the setting sun catch on the bruises marring his cheek, and I feel both turned on and furious at the handsthat left them there. If anyone is going to mark his skin, it will be me.

He tilts his head again. “What are you thinking about?”

“Marking you,” I tell him. I brush my hands off on my jeans as I stand, but they don’t feel clean, which starts to bother me. I want to go wash off, but I also don’t want this moment to end. Reaching out, I draw a line over the bruising on his throat. “I want my marks on you. Not his.”

Denver takes a moment, and I’m not sure if maybe he didn’t catch what I said or if he’s processing. The right corner of his lips tilts up in a half smile. “It’s not the worst idea.”

I know that means he likes the thought. I step forward, and he backs up, one step after another after another, until his back is against the shed. I wonder if maybe he hates it. It is, after all, a place of violence.

But he doesn’t seem to care. His hands lift and press to my chest as he meets my gaze. Cupping his cheek, I let my fingers tap against his bruises, and then I drag them lower to the side of his neck where his skin is unblemished.

“Here.”

“A bite?”

I grin and nod. He knows me already. Leaning in, I lick a stripe over that spot, then use my teeth to tug on his ear. “Little rabbit, you make me want to chase you.”

“After my head feels better,” he whispers. “Maybe in the big cemetery. With the older headstones. You can fuck me over a grave and make up for leaving me.”

I shiver, knowing his words are meant to entice me and not make me feel guilty, which is good, because I don’t. Turning his head by the chin, I kiss him slowly and deeply, finding streaks of dirt on his jawline when I pull back. “Shower,” I tell him.

“And then home.”

I stare. “We are home.”

“Myhome,” he says.

Something ugly twists in my chest. I am not foolish enough to expect he’d want to move in with me forever. Not yet. Though I can’t help but want to keep him all to myself, and I’m not above using dirty tactics to make that happen. Besides, it’s far too soon for him to leave. We’ve made no progress on finding who hurt him, and I can’t take the risk of him being on his own and left vulnerable.

His hand curls against the side of my neck. “Don’t make that face,” he whispers. I wonder if he means to be louder, but it doesn’t matter. “I’m not going to stay there. I just forgot a couple of things I need.”

“I brought everything you need.” I know I’m pouting now, but I don’t care.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Not everything.”

“I don’t want you going there.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m not afraid. And you’ll be with me. We can be quick.”

He has a point, and it does make me feel better that he doesn’t want to go by himself. I open my mouth to agree, then close it as I become profoundly aware of the feeling of dirt on my skin and under my nails. It’s all I can think about. It robs me of my speech for the moment, overwhelming my senses.

I usually like my brain, but sometimes it’s my own worst enemy.

‘Shower,’ I sign. ‘Need. Please.’

‘Okay,’ he signs back. ‘Go shower. Then my place.’