Page 85 of Remy

OLIVIA

I stare at the reddened flesh of my fingertips, the first-degree burn throbbing as I’m driven toward the suburbs.

I don’t know what to think. How to feel.

Every time I’m certain this situation can’t get worse, the universe says, “Hold my beer.”

“You did good,” he murmurs from behind the wheel.

I’m not sure I agree. I was terrified, Lorenzo’s faux charm having no calming effect on me.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” I admit.

Remy hits me with a skeptical look. “Even with me?”

Yes. Even with you.

The realization is yet another unsettling part of this nightmare.

I’d been defiant with Remy. Combative. I even dared to shove him in the retort, for Christ’s sake.

In contrast, I’d struggled to breathe through my terror while in the presence of Lorenzo and Salvatore.

It makes me wonder if I’ve truly feared Remy at all. If our brief moment at that dive bar may have frazzled my self-preservation where he’s concerned.

Case in point, right this very moment, what I currently feel toward him holds no resemblance to apprehension and seems overwhelmingly like appreciation.

I’m grateful… to a murderer… who previously threatened to unalive me.

I return my attention to my throbbing fingers. “You inspire a different sort of fear.” One that mingles with attraction and dances freely with stupidity.

“Well, given Lorenzo’s dictate, you can rest easy knowing we never have to see each other again.”

My stomach tumbles as I raise crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping.”

He snatches my wrist, frowning as he drags my hand toward him and inspects my damaged fingertips. “Have you got something for the burn?”

My breathing stutters, his hold sending a wave of tingles up my arm. “I’ll be fine.” I drag my wrist away.

“Just FYI,” he drawls, “fine is never a comforting descriptor.”

Why does he have to do that? To show just how much he listens to me. How intently he takes notice. I don’t want to like him.

“Sorry. I should’ve said, ‘Your concern is wasted on me when you’re the reason I’m in this mess.’”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

I will not feel guilty for being a bitch.

Besides, there’s no room for that emotion amongst all the adrenaline, fear, and gratitude flowing through my veins.

“Can I put some music on?” I reach for the display screen, my gaze catching on the digital clock.

Shit.

I’m so fucking late for work.

I yank my cell from my pants pocket, contemplating whether I should text Ivy when the screen alights with the notification of her six missed calls.

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