Page 95 of Roaming Holiday

Life outside of the last few hours falls in on me. My family must be worried sick. I hand him the phone. “Can you do that now? And make sure he tells my family that I said I’m okay?”

As he makes the call, I head into the bathroom to unpack the first aid bag. To my right is a walk-in shower with glass walls. I shiver at what atrocities might have been done to afford designs like that.

I grimace at my reflection. I need a shower. Dirt smudges along my arms, legs, and face. I tame my frizzy hair by redoing a bun, this one at the crown of my head. I clean the tiny scrape on my knee, marveling at the fact that it’s the only wound I got out of this tumultuous day.

“Is everything okay? What did Jack say?” I ask when Wesley appears behind me. I watch him through the mirror. “Did you tell him to talk to my family?”

“Of course. We set a time and place to meet tomorrow morning. Six a.m.”

“Why can’t we go now?”

“It’s getting dark, and Arlo expected us to come here, so he probably has his people outside.”

“If he knew we were coming here, then why didn’t we go somewhere else?” I wail, and I clamp my mouth shut when he looks at his torn shirt. I can’t focus. “Shit, right. That’s the whole reason I unpacked this thing. Take your shirt off.”

“Don’t worry about me; I’ll take care of it.” He brushes me off and reaches for the gauze.

I smack his hand away. “It’s not up to you. Shirt, off.”

He sighs, too exhausted to argue with me as he tugs it over his head. Bruises blossom up and down his body. “Yes, ma’am.”

He takes a few painkillers as I wash my hands. I fill the spray bottle with water to clean the blood around the two gashes on his torso—one on his chest and the other on his ribs. He winces when I peel off a piece of fabric that stuck to the open wound.

I crinkle my nose. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

He has two slits in his body and a face of bruises and cuts. He’s not fine. I use a gentler touch, savoring the feel of his coarse chest hair under my fingertips. The thought of Daria, or any other woman, seeing Wesley naked or sleeping with him makes my stomach twist. I clear my throat.

“Daria was your girlfriend?”

He blinks as if surprised. “I, uh—if you could call it that.”

My face warms. “Friends with benefits, then.”

“That’s not what I?—”

“It’s okay,” I interject, masking the slight tremor in my voice as I move to the cut on his ribcage. “I get it—she’s stunning. Deadly, too, by the looks of it… That’s your type?”

Maybe I was just a bump along the way. There’s a whole new side to him, a violent one, and what if I don’t fit? What if he remembers the thrill and doesn’t want me anymore? He stiffens as I flush the open skin with water. Droplets slip down his waist and I pretend that desire isn’t curling inside me.

“You’re my type,” he argues, his hand brushing my hip. “Only you.”

“Even though I’m not some bad ass who knows how to kill a man in twenty different ways?” I lean down to softly blow on the wound.

Wesley releases a sharp, shuddering breath. “Fuck,” he mumbles, and I smirk at the goosebumps pouring over his skin. He tightens his grip. “I don’t know, angel. You’ve already killed me a hundred times.”

Butterflies break free in my chest. He grazes my chin with his finger, prodding me to look at him. Warmth prickles through me at the mere sight of his face. Even with a cut on his brow, a bruised cheek, and a bruised eye, he’s handsome beyond reason. His deep-set eyes, thick brows, feather-soft hair, his scruff. I’m so in love with him.

“As long as you don’t hate me,” he says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

His direct demeanor knocks me into reality. I shiver as if doused with cold water. Arlo’s words replay in my mind.

This man murdered without humanity.

I inhale shakily. “Answer my questions, then. No arguing. No hesitation. Can you do that?” I ask, echoing what he said to me earlier. It’s a subtle challenge. I trusted you. Now it’s your turn.

“Yes,” he whispers.

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