Kira clung to Jamie as he carried her past the crumbling house, her arms tight around his neck. She couldn’t help glancing up. The windows—dark, cracked, and gaping—looked like dead eyes in the flat light.
She shivered.
Jamie didn’t stop until they reached a large rock they’d passed earlier. He lowered onto it slowly, still cradling her like she was breakable. His breath came fast and harsh, his chest rising and falling against her side. She thought for a moment he might be trembling—but then again, she couldn’t be sure. He had just carried her who-knew-how-far through the woods. A little shaky breathing was understandable.
They stayed like that for several moments.
Eventually, Jamie shifted and gently moved her from his lap to sit beside him. His hand came up, brushing the side of her face, and Kira became aware of how disheveled she must look—her hair full of dust, dry leaves, maybe even spiderwebs.
Ugh.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” His voice was low and tight, and his face—pale, drawn—mirrored the concern in his eyes.
She looked down at her palms. They throbbed now, the sting no longer muted by shock. Scrapes, mostly—probably from grabbing at whatever she could on the way down.
“Just some cuts,” she said, holding her hands out almost apologetically.
He took them in his, studying them as if they were precious or fragile. Then, without a word, he lifted one to his mouth and pressed a kiss into her palm.
Her breath caught.
Then he did the same to the other.
A shiver slid through her that had nothing to do with fear or pain.
Jamie slipped off the rock and knelt in front of her, all business now. “Your left ankle?”
She nodded.
Carefully, he unlaced her boot and eased it off. His hands brushed her calf before cradling her ankle. She winced as his fingers found the swelling.
“Definitely a sprain,” he said. “It’s not something chiropractic can fix, but I’ve worked with a lot of sports injuries over the years.”
They fell quiet as he began to massage the area, easing some of the ache.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
His hands stilled. “You’re not the one who needs to be sorry. You’re hurt.”
“I know. I just…” She blew out a shaky breath. “I sure picked the wrong place to step.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” he said. His eyes met hers, serious now. “It was mine. I should’ve been watching you more closely.”
Kira frowned, confused. He wasn’t responsible for her actions.
“We need to get you back to the canoe,” he said, clearly changing gears. “I’ll carry you.”
She sat up straighter, instinct flaring. “I don’t want you doing that—not with your knee.”
“My knee’s fine,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “You can’t exactly hobble barefoot through those woods.”
“What about wrapping the ankle?” she said.
“With what?”
She folded her arms. “Well, I’m not going to ride piggyback like some damsel in distress.”
He stood, exasperation clear in the set of his jaw. “Why are you being so stubborn?”
“I’m not.” The word came out sharper than she meant. Old habits, old walls. She’d spent too many years being quiet and agreeable. She wasn’t that girl anymore—but that wasn’t about Jamie.
“Okay,” she added, her voice softer. “Maybe I am a little…”
His eyes, tawny and unreadable, were locked on hers. Intense. Searching. She couldn’t look away.
“…Opinionated,” she finished, breathless.
And then he pulled off his shirt.
Kira sucked in a breath, stunned by the unexpected wave of heat that rolled through her. Jamie’s torso was exactly as she’d imagined—sculpted, strong, inked across one shoulder with a tattoo that hinted at stories she hadn’t yet heard. His chest was smooth except for a dusting of hair low on his abdomen, where a dark trail disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Okay. Wow.
Her thoughts turned hazy and she had to physically resist the urge to fan herself.
Jamie’s hands worked the T-shirt.
“What are you doing?” she managed to ask, as—
Rrrrrrip.
He tore a long strip from the fabric.
“We need something to wrap your ankle,” he said.
“Yeah, but—”
Rrrrrrip.
“You got a better idea?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
She glanced down at her tank top, then back at him.
He smirked, already anticipating the comeback.
“Using yours is not an option,” he said.
Rrrrrrip.
“You like that phrase,” she muttered. “Not an option.”
He didn’t answer, just kept tearing the shirt into strips with calm efficiency. She watched him work, chest still bare, hands steady. She didn’t even care that he was ruining a perfectly good shirt—though she was so getting him a new one.
Finally, satisfied with his makeshift bandage, Jamie knelt again, and Kira clamped her mouth shut as he began to wrap her ankle with surprising gentleness.
She couldn’t tell if her heart was racing from pain… or from something far more serious.
