A laugh escaped. He’d lost weight, the nightmares of how close he’d come to being gutted meant he was losing sleep, and he’d picked up another knife scar. “Yeah.”

She waited a minute, gave up on him talking, and busied herself disposing of the juice box and putting the cookies away.

“I stole a couple. Good cookies.”

Her lips curved slightly. “I leave them down here so anyone can help themselves. I’m glad you liked them.”

Her voice was the way he remembered. Not husky like JJs, but with a pure, perfect clarity that delighted the musician in him. Her soprano when singing was just as beautiful.

“Kit.” He stopped, unsure of what to say next.

She looked up at him, her lustrous brown eyes the color of the mocha coffee Frankie liked to drink. Then she folded her hands over her waist in a way that reminded him of a nun.

In the forest, he could sneak up on deer, on bear. Damned if he could figure out how to sneak up on a conversational subject. So he just put it out there. “I don’t think you’re dirty. Or used goods.”

Eyes widening, she took a step back.

Great, he was screwing this up already. “As a kid, I got beat up. A lot.”

Her eyes softened. “Hawk.”

“I’m not dirty because of it. Rape is a way of beating someone up—a shitty way, but still. You’re not dirty because of it.”

Shock had filled her face.

Unable to figure out what else to do, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to say.”

She swallowed. “But you left.”

“I touched you, and you panicked.” After turning his forearms over to show the sleeves of tats, he ran a finger down the scar on his cheek, the one that lifted his lip like he was growling. “I get it. I scare people—and this is a place where you should feel safe.”

“You thought I was afraid of you? You left so I’d feel safer?” Her expression changed in the way that the light brightens at dawn when the sun first clears the mountaintops. “You don’t scare me, Hawk. You saved me.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know what—”

“I’ve seen you with Aric. With Regan and Gryff. Under the scars and tats, you’re a really nice person.”

Nice? He stared at her.

She pulled in a breath and lifted her chin. “I have a kind of PTSD. Some things—especially with men—swamp me with bad memories, and I’m still trying to figure out what can set me off. The counselor calls them triggers.”