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Chapter 722:
“Committed?” he supplied. “Obsessed? Dangerous?” He shrugged, the movement shifting her against his chest, reminding her of her position, her vulnerability, her absolute inability to escape without his cooperation. “All of the above. But also—” he paused, reached the top of the trail, the clearing with the stone bench and the view of the valley emerging from fog below, “—also the only person in your life who has never lied to you about what I want. Never pretended to be something I’m not. Never asked you to be anything other than exactly who you are p>
He set her down. Carefully, gently, arranging her on the bench with her injured leg extended, her back against the stone, his jacket folded beneath her before she could protest.
“Rest,” he said. “I’ll get ice from the retreat center. And June—” he straightened, looked down at her with an expression she couldn’t read, something between tenderness and triumph, “—when I get back, we’re going to talk about why you keep choosing men who can’t see you. And what happens when you finally choose one who can p>
He walked away, down the trail they had just climbed, his stride easy and unhurried, the walk of a man who had all the time in the world.
𝘠о𝘂r 𝗇𝗲𝗑t 𝖿а𝗏𝘰𝗋і𝘵𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮d 𝗂s 𝗼𝘯
June sat alone on the mountain, her ankle throbbing, her phone miles away, and felt the first cold touch of real fear.
Not of Crawford. Not exactly.
Of herself. Of the part of her that had heard his words and felt something resonate, something recognize, something want.
The stone bench was cold even through Crawford’s jacket, the damp of morning seeping into June’s bones. She pulled the fabric tighter around her shoulders, inhaling automatically—the scent of him, cedar and tobacco and something darker, more animal—and forced herself to exhale, to release, to not let the familiarity become comfort.
Her ankle was worse than she had admitted. The swelling had tightened her boot, turning the leather into a vise that pulsed with her heartbeat. She tried to rotate her foot, assess the damage, and gasped at the sharp, electric pain that shot up her calf.
“Don’t p>
Crawford’s voice came from the trailhead. She hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t registered his return, and the realization sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He emerged from the fog carrying a proper first aid kit, the kind with a red cross on the side that suggested military surplus rather than drugstore purchase. His jacket was gone—she was wearing it—and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with muscle that spoke of more than gym membership.
“How’s the pain p>
“Manageable p>
“Liar.” He set the kit on the bench beside her, dropped to one knee in front of her extended leg, and reached for her boot.
June’s hand shot out, closed around his wrist. “Don’t p>
“June.” He looked up at her, his eyes level with hers, the amber dark in the diffuse light. “I need to see the injury. I need to know if it’s a sprain, a tear, or something worse. And I need—” he paused, let his hand turn in her grip, his fingers threading through hers, palm to palm, “—I need you to trust me. Just this once. Just for the next five minutes p>
She should pull away. Should refuse, should insist on waiting for proper medical attention, should do any of the thousand things her rational mind was screaming at her to do.
She let go.