Heart pounding, Emma clenched the empty folders against her chest. Had Torin finally listened to her advice and decided to seek out some help? Bare-chested, damp kilt slung low around his hips, Torin electrified the room, filled it with a primitive energy. Emma swallowed hard, trying to ignore the rush of heat steaming away any sign of dampness from her rain soaked skin. What in the blazes was her problem? Other men didn’t trigger that molten lava feeling from her waist down. Of course, other men didn’t walk into the clinic flexing their tanned, muscular abs like a peacock spreading his plumage for a mate. Dragging her stare from the tattooed glyphs shimmering across his chest, Emma struggled to find her voice. “Wh-why—what are you doing here?”
Moira sidled closer to Emma’s shoulder, whispering behind a shield of papers as she tucked them into Emma’s hands. “Perhaps he thought ye could help with his scars since ye come from overseas.”
Ignoring Moira, Emma took a step toward Torin and repeated, “Why are you here?” Torin needed to state that he needed help. Only then would she believe he’d finally arrived at the logical decision and might be ready to heal.
Torin’s gray eye narrowed in Moira’s direction, indicating he’d overheard her whisper behind the papers. With a chest-expanding inhale, Torin widened his stance as his gaze riveted back to Emma. “You and I are no’ finished.”
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