Adorned in a pink bathrobe, she was down in no time.
Water dripped from her fiery red hair onto the polished concrete floor as she skidded to a halt in the kitchen.
Donovan lay face down near the marble island. His broad shoulders rose and fell in shallow, jagged breaths. The sharp lines of his face pressed hard against the cold floor. A sickening heat radiated off his skin, blurring the air around him like asphalt in the summer sun.
"You poor baby," she sighs miserably.
She dropped to her knees beside him. Her bare legs hit the concrete. She reached out, pressing her palm against his back. It felt like touching a burning stove. He groaned. A low, pained sound twisted her heart into a knot.
"System, tell me he isn’t dying," Sunny barked, glancing around the empty kitchen.
The white drone phased through the ceiling, buzzing softly as it hovered over his broad back. Its blue screen scanned him with a thin laser.
"He is fine, Host," the drone replied, its digital eyes curving slightly. "His cells are mutating to accommodate the Ice Elementalist abilities. The process burns a vast amount of energy. He needs a place to lie down and you must provide him some coolness to stabilize his core temperature."
Sunny blew a wet strand of hair out of her face. That made perfect sense.
"Okay. A nice, soft bed. That’s a nice idea."
Moving a built, six-foot-plus CEO up a flight of stairs wasn’t a joke. He felt like dense muscle and pure iron. Even with her newly acquired Strength stats, dragging him felt like hauling a boulder up a mountain. She hooked her arms under his armpits, gritting her teeth as she hoisted his upper body off the floor.
"Come on, Donnie," she grunted, her bare feet finding purchase on the floating wooden steps. "Work with me here. Don’t be dead weight."
He didn’t answer. He just mumbled something incoherent. His head lolled against her collarbone. The scent of cedar mixed with raw ozone filled her nose.
She dragged his burning body back to her own bed.
She heaved him onto the plush mattress with a loud gasp. His long legs dangled off the edge for a second before she shoved him properly onto the center of the massive bed. His head sank into her fluffy white pillows. The pristine silk sheets instantly clung to his sweat-soaked skin.
Sunny rushed straight into the master bathroom. She grabbed a deep ceramic basin, filled it with freezing cold water from the tap, and snatched a soft white hand towel off the rack.
She hurried back into the bedroom and sat right on the edge of the mattress.
She dipped the cloth into the freezing water, wrung it out tight, and pressed it gently against his burning forehead.
He flinched. A sharp hiss escaped his lips.
"Shh, I know," she whispered, brushing his dark hair back. "I’ve got you."
She plays nurse, wiping down his sculpted, sweat-slicked chest with a cool cloth.
She dragged the damp fabric down the thick cord of his neck. She swiped it across his broad shoulders, tracing the hard lines of his collarbones. She wiped away the slick sheen of sweat coating his pectorals.
And the proximity was driving her crazy.
Every single time her knuckles accidentally brushed against his bare skin, a jolt of pure electricity shot up her arm. The heat rolling off him was intoxicating. It was a raw, primal energy that made her pulse hammer a frantic, deafening rhythm in her ears. Her breath hitched. The friction of her silk pink bathrobe suddenly felt far too rough against her sensitive skin. Her nipples pointed, pressing tight against the thin fabric.
She swallowed a dry lump in her throat. A deep, hollow hunger curled right in the center of her stomach. She was hungry for him. She wanted to lean down and press her lips against the erratic pulse beating at the base of his throat.
She dipped the cloth back into the water. Her hands shook, sending tiny ripples across the surface of the basin.
Stop staring at his abs, Sunny. Stop it. You’re supposed to be saving his life.
She was blushing. She was overheating. She was trying her absolute best not to look at the sharp V-line disappearing beneath the waistband of his ruined suit pants. It was a losing battle. The author of the novel didn’t hold back when designing this man. He looked like a fallen god laid out on her sheets.
She pressed the cool cloth flat against his sternum.
He was delirious from the fever. He tossed his head to the side. His jaw clenched tight as another wave of supernatural heat wrecked his system. His gray eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused. Wild. Clouded with pain and raw instinct.
She reached out with her free hand to wipe a bead of sweat from his cheek.
He suddenly grabs her wrist.
His grip was a steel trap. He jerked her forward with terrifying speed, pulling her close to his face. She gasped, dropping the wet cloth. She tumbled forward, her hands bracing against the mattress on either side of his head to keep from crushing him.
Her face was inches from his. The raw heat of his breath scorched her cheeks.
He stared right at her lips. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, right over her racing, frantic pulse. His gray eyes darkened, shifting from a stormy gray to something far more dangerous.
"You don’t get to run," Donovan muttered, his voice a dark, gravelly rasp that vibrated straight through her core. "You took my things. Now I take you. You’re mine to hunt."
Then, he passed out.
His eyes rolled back. His grip on her wrist went slack. His head slumped sideways onto the pillow, his breathing evening out into a deep, steady rhythm as the cool water finally started to bring his fever down.
Sunny stopped breathing. She remained frozen over him, her heart threatening to bust straight out of her ribcage.
He probably didn’t mean it that way. The fever was frying his brain. He was talking about hunting her down for stealing his weapons, his fuel, and his Lotus. He was talking about revenge.
But the way he phrased it was so delicious.
It sent a wild, consuming shock straight down her spine. The words echoed in her head, playing on a continuous loop. You’re mine to hunt.
Sunny didn’t even think he’d say such a thing in his entire life. The Donovan Fallon in the novel was a cold, distant, calculating machine. He spoke in corporate buzzwords and polite threats. This version? This fever-drunk, unhinged version was raw, primal, and fiercely possessive.
She slowly pulled her wrist from his limp fingers. She sat back on her heels, staring at his sleeping face. Her cheeks burned like fire. A massive, ridiculous grin stretched across her lips.
"I’m definitely keeping you," she whispered, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "You can hunt me all you want, hubby. I’ll just let you catch me."
She picked the wet cloth back up, ready to wipe down his arms. She felt giddy. She felt victorious. The world outside was an absolute nightmare, but in here, she was winning. The storm outside raged. Rain lashed against the reinforced concrete walls of the bunker. She could barely hear the muffled roars of the monsters tearing Koria apart. In here, it was silent. In here, the only crisis was the burning man on her bed, and she was handling it perfectly.
The quiet hum of the bedroom broke.
A cold blue light bathed the bed. The drone suddenly comes to her side, hovering right above the mahogany nightstand. The digital face looked stark, serious, and entirely unamused by her romantic daydreaming.
"New Mission: Let the target leave," the system stated, its robotic voice cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. "Penalty for failure: Immediate Death."