Page 24 of Better Hide

Jo’s eyes snap open, focusing on the water in my hand. Her entire body locks up. “No! No, no, no.”

“Shhhh,” Cole tightens his grip. “We have to get you cleaned up.”

I splash water over her knees. Jo fights, the clarity in her eyes gone, pure fear taking its place.

“Easy,” Cole mutters.

Jo doesn’t listen. Or can’t. She thrashes her whole body.

“Get my bag,” Cole grunts.

Jo looks at me but doesn’t see me. It’s like she’s looking through me.

I watch in fascination. I’ve seen Jo afraid before, but it’s just as intriguing every time it happens. Will I break her this time? What will she do after she breaks? Will she fall apart in my hands and let me hold the pieces?

Doubtful.

Which just means I haven’t worked her just right yet.

“Get me a candy.”

I glance at Cole.

“A lemon drop.” He gestures impatiently.

“You can eat after,” I grunt. He’s distracting me from Jo’s downfall, and it’s pissing me off.

“Not for me, asshole. For her.”

I chuck Cole’s bag at him, thoroughly annoyed that I was pulled out of the moment. Cole shuffles around while trying to hold her still.

“What are you doing?”

“The sour will pull her out of her panic.” Cole struggles to hold Jo still but slips a candy between her lips, clamping his hand over her mouth.

It takes Jo a second to register, but when she does, her nostrils flare. Her eyes flash to mine, and she’s partially back again. Instead of submission, I see fire in her eyes.

My temper flares. Does she not know what’s good for her? I could easily kill her, and yet, she’s still poking the bear.

Cole mutters in Jo’s ear, “You’re going to hold still so we can treat your cuts.”

Jo fights, trying again to pull out of Cole’s arms.

“No,” he winces, a look of vulnerability flashing over his face. “Let me hold you.”

I glance at Cole. “Are you hurt?” I check him up and down for injuries.

“No,” his face flushes.

I frown. “Why’d you wince?”

“Fuck off.” Cole glares at me.

I frown again. Is he upset she’s fighting him? Join the fucking club.

I get to treating Jo’s knees. There are a few open scrapes, and the rest is just roughed-up skin. The bandage on her arm is soaked and dirty. I pull it off, checking the barely scabbed wounds underneath—the marks of her ownership.

The marks she goaded us into making because she doesn’t know when to fucking stop.

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