Claiming His Treasure

Chapter Eight

When he saw Charlie go over the cliff, Jackson's vision went red.

He'd come upon them just in time to see the bastard try to grab Charlie's leg. Just in time to see her stumble and fall. And in that second, his entire world had exploded.

In no time at all, he was on top of the bastard. Beating him. Trying to tear his head off.

But this man was bigger than his companion—who currently lay unconscious back on the trail. This man met Jackson punch for punch. Kick for kick. For every strike Jackson landed, he received one in return. And all the while in his head he kept seeing Charlie go over the cliff. Charlie, who was only here because of him. Charlie, who had somehow become his entire world.

Charlie...

His opponent got him in the ribs, knocking the breath right from his chest. He didn't have time to recover, and the next swing swept him onto his back.

He hooked his leg around the larger man's knee and pulled him down to the ground. He had to finish this guy. Had to get over the cliff and find Charlie. Even if it's the last thing I do...

Suddenly, a CRACK sounded above him, and his opponent went rigid on top of him. For a long second, the man didn't move at all, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward.

Jackson only just managed to get out of the way of the guy's skull. He scrambled to his feet as the large man landed in an unconscious heap on the ground.

Charlie stood over them, chest heaving, a bottle in her hand—well, the remains of a bottle, anyway. The rest of it was in pieces on the ground. Apparently her makeshift weapon had broken when it hit its mark.

Instantly, he was beside her. He gave his opponent a small kick—just to make absolutely certain he was unconscious—and then he grabbed Charlie and crushed her against his chest. His hands roamed over her body and his lips went to her hair. She was here. In one piece. Apparently unharmed. Her arms went around him, too, and he could feel her shaking.

Thank God, he thought, tangling his fingers in her hair. Kissing her ear, her temple, her eyelids. Thank God she's safe.

That was what he'd wanted all along—to keep her safe. To protect her from the dangerous parts of this life. If something ever happened to her, he didn't know what he'd do.

His hands slid up her arms. There were scrapes and cuts all over her skin, and purple bruises were already beginning to form. Even though the injuries were far from life-threatening, every single one made the rage boil inside of him—rage at these men for harming her. Rage at himself for letting it happen.

Charlie's hands moved up his back, searching his body as his hands searched hers. He wanted to go over her inch by inch, to take stock of every little wound for which he was responsible. And then take her back to the guest house and peel off all of her clothes and try to erase those injuries with his mouth and his touch.

He caught her face between his hands and tilted her head back. He had so much he wanted to say to her, but he couldn't seem to find the words. Instead, his lips fell on hers, attacking her hungrily, letting her taste all of the things he didn't know how to say. He couldn't get enough of her. Never wanted her out of his sight, not even for a second.

She returned his kiss with equal passion, gripping him tightly and moaning softly against his mouth. She didn't have to say anything. He could feel her fear and her relief and her joy and her desire through every place where their bodies met. It further stirred the need inside of him, and he found himself pushing her back toward the nearest tree, wanting her here and now in spite of the impracticalities.