Page 31 of Caught from Behind

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

I jump, popping open my door in the next second, leaping out of the driver’s seat and onto the road just in time to watch her march over to a tree and kick it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she shouts again. “Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?” Punctuating each word with a kick against the thick trunk of the pine tree. She spins, shoving her hands into her hair, expression furious even from this distance.

When she realizes I’ve followed her from the car, she freezes, eyes going wide.

“Get back in the car, chérie,” I say softly, walking slowly over to her like the cornered animal she is. Too fast and she’ll snap again. Too fast and she’ll bolt.

Probably too late for that.

Probably, I’ve already ruined it. Ruined this.

Ruined everything.

“It’s too cold to do this right now,” I say softly, reaching for her.

But she’s already reaching for me, rising on tiptoe, hands on my cheeks, tilting my head down.

Her eyes spear into mine. “You told her no?”

Fear locks my spine in place and I want to tear free of her hold, want to be the one who’s kicking the tree, kicking it so hard that it topples over, crushing everything in its shadows.

But I can’t move, can’t break her hold.

Not when she whispers, not in the form of a question this time. “You told her no.”

Words stopper up in my throat, but I manage to nod.

“It wasn’t an overindulgence,” she says. “It wasn’t that you did something stupid. It wasn’t your fault. She raped you.”

I start to shake my head.

But she tightens the hold on my face. “She did that to you. It’s her fault. Not yours. Not ever yours.” Then she releases me, takes my hand, and draws me to the car.

But not to the driver’s seat.

I freeze, come back to myself. “I’ll drive.”

She studies my face, and I expect her to argue, but she doesn’t, just keeps my hand in hers as she rounds the hood of my car, as she moves to the open passenger’s side door. Her lips brush the back of my hand before she slips her fingers free and sits in the seat.

The loss of her touch leaves me wavering.

But only for a moment.

Because then the wind picks up, the frosty air biting at my exposed skin. Fucking freezing. And Ella’s door is open.

She must be cold.

I lean into the opening, make sure that all of her limbs are safely tucked inside, and when I see that her seat belt isn’t buckled, I do it up for her.

Her hand on my cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

My lungs stall. Then inflate.

But I don’t say anything as I maneuver out of the car, as I round the hood and get into the driver’s seat, but before I can put the transmission into drive again, she covers my hand with hers, says again, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Christ.

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