Page 128 of Remy

But I force myself away from the mental distraction and into the car. There’s blood everywhere. On the steering wheel. Along the dash.

I don’t dare to look in the backseat.

What the hell are you getting yourself into?

I close my door before I can contemplate fleeing, dump my cell and keys in the center console, then readjust my seat and drag on my belt.

Remy settles in beside me. “You’re not even wearing shoes.”

“Is that seriously a safety concern when you could be slowly dying?”

He glances out his side window. “I didn’t take you for a catastrophizer.”

“And I didn’t take you for the type to go down without a fight, but here we are.” I start the car, shift to reverse, and press the accelerator, the vehicle lurching backward fast enough to wrench a squeak from my throat.

“Sorry.” I wince. “She’s sensitive.”

He drags on his seatbelt. “If memory serves, she’s not the only one.”

I ignore the innuendo. Completely disregard the heat that settles low in my belly as I continue to reverse, the bloody scene in the delivery room stretching out before me until I shift the car to drive and gently take us out onto the street. “You’re going to have to give me directions, Swiss.”

His brow hikes.

“Like the cheese.” I smile.

“Yeah, I got it. I just didn’t expect Little Miss Volatility to be cracking jokes.” He jerks his chin at the road ahead. “Take a left at the intersection.”

I follow his instructions. But apart from the simple left, right, keep going straight, he’s uncomfortably silent for miles, which makes me uncomfortably concerned.

“You should really make a tourniquet for your leg. I’d offer my pajamas as a makeshift tie but…” I clear my throat, not bothering to finish the sentence.

It’s obvious I have nothing on under my skimpy camisole.

“What?” He looks at me, deadpan, his gaze making the briefest journey to the ring that has found its home at the start of my cleavage. “Are you waiting for me to protest?”

I roll my eyes, hating the spark that shoots through me. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But seriously, you need to stem the bleeding.” I glance down at his leg and the crimson painted across the car’s cream leather seat. “Take your belt off and tighten it around your upper thigh.”

“It’s a through-and-through flesh wound. I’ll live… Turn right at the next intersection.”

I sigh, succumbing to his instructions.

I let panicked thoughts keep me company in between his murmured directions toward Harbor East—what will happen if I’m pulled over? Should I take him to a hospital if he dies? Will his uncle and brother blame me?

“This is it.” He points a lazy finger toward a stylish apartment building on the corner of a harbor block, then deftly unfurls his belt from his pants. “Go around the back.”

I chance continued glances toward him as I circle the glass tower to a parking garage door Remy opens with a remote. I drive up level after level while he wraps his upper thigh with the strap of leather and secures it tight with a wince.

“Now you make a tourniquet?” I ask.

“I don’t want to trail blood through the parking lot.” He jerks his chin at a space signposted Reserved—Penthouse right before the elevators. “Park there.”

He climbs out as soon as the car comes to a stop.

I rush to cut the ignition, grab my cell, and then catch up to his uneven gait as he approaches the nearby elevators only to continue farther around the corner. “Wait. Where are you go…?” My question is cut short when he presses the call button to an elevator on the other side, the doors opening instantly.

The interior is luxuriously appointed, the walls covered in sparkling mirrors with subtle ambient lighting. There’s not even a complete button panel. There are only three options. G - ground, P5 - parking, and P - penthouse, alongside some sort of scanner he places his fingertips against.

Of course he has a private elevator.

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