Page 9 of The Wrong Drive

And that might be why I’ve left her living. It’s hard to say if it’s a rare occurrence of sympathy or just some kind of sick intrigue.

My eyes glide down to her denim, and I stare at the dark, still soaked place around her upper thighs to her ankles. A twitch tugs at my upper lip, and I rake my fingers through my hair. I’m not sure why it seems like a mountain of a task, given the life I fully lived up till the age of twenty-nine. But it does.

I spin on my heels and head to the door where I dropped her things, quickly unzipping the top black duffle bag. Much to my relief, there’s a pair of gray sweatpants on top. I pull them out, catching the hint of lavender detergent. I wince at the scent, my stomach furling. I hold them out and away from my body as I return to the woman.

I don’t even know her name. But maybe it’s better that way.

If I know her name, it might make it more scarring when she’s a mound of dead flesh. A sick taste hangs in my mouth, and I shake my head. I don’t have to think about that right now. I’m fine.

I’m fine.Everything is fine.

I toss the sweatpants on the arm of my faded leather couch, and then reach for her, my hands landing on her hips. The warmth of her body sears my calloused palms.Fuck, it has been so long since I touched a woman.Gritting my teeth, I roll her gently onto her back. A light moan slips from her lips, and a thrum of something old and familiar hits my groin.

Ah, good to know that part of me still functions.

Pushing it aside, I stick to the task at hand, removing her shoes and then unsnapping her jeans. As I tug them over her hips, I’m met with the sight of her skin, glistening under the glow of the fireplace. Freckles dot the pale skin in places, and I try to ignore the way her black satin underwear are like a magnet for my gaze. My knuckles brush her bare skin, and my heart throbs in my temple.

Could I make her feel good if she wanted me to?It would only be fair since I know her ending. Maybe it’d make it less painful if she had something pleasurable to go with it. I chuckle to myself, knowing good and well, I’d just scar her more. Or myself.

So, I push it away, pulling the jeans the rest of the way off her and tossing them toward the warm floor in front of the fire. I swallow the knot in my throat as see her stretched out in front of me. Primal urges tug at me.

But I don’t listen. I have self-control.In that way.

I retrieve the sweats and work her into them, letting out a sigh of relief when she’s fully covered again. I’m still a gentleman, despite being fucked in the head.

My monsters are of an entirely different kind.

Chapter 4

Emersyn

Warm.

I feelwarm.Not hot. Not cold. Just…warm. And for a moment—a very,veryshort one—I forget what happened to me. However, my throbbing hand is enough to bring the memories crashing down. My pulse picks up as my eyes flutter open, halfway expecting myself to be chained in a basement.

But I’mnot.

My fingers brush the leather material beneath me, and I adjust my eyes to the living room, alight by the glow of a fireplace. It’s…cozy. The flames cast an orange glow across a quaint sitting area, and while it’s not Hallmark level of comfort, it’s not roughing it, either. Off the living room, there’s a kitchen, but I can’t make out much. The wind howls outside, and as my eyes track back, a chill runs down my spine.

Somehow, in all my waking up, I missed the dark figure sitting in the armchair across from me. My heart jumps to my throat as I take in the shadow of a man, his face partially illuminated by the fireplace. I can make out his strong set jaw, the slight dimple in his chin, and his dark, hooded eyes.

He’s terrifying.

I rip my gaze from the shadow man to my hand, properly bandaged. That’s when I notice my jeans have been replaced with sweatpants—that were in my luggage. My mouth runs dry at the realization that heat a minimumchanged my pants. I press my hand against my forehead, just realizing I have a headache.

“It’ll fade,” the man grunts at me.

I don’t say anything immediately, working my fingertips to the sore spot on the back of my head. There’s a knot and while it’s still painful to the touch, it’s notthatbad. I’ve had worse injuries, I guess. I press my hands back down against the couch, and slowly, rise to a sitting position, all while eyeing the man a few feet from me. His knuckles are white as he curls them into the leather. The motion causes lightheadedness as my blood pressure takes a drop.

“How long have I been out?” I ask, my voice cracking with every syllable.

It seems to grate his nerves as what little of his jaw I can see twitches. “Hours.”

I narrow my gaze. “How many?”

“Enough for your head to feel better.”

My mind can’t wrap itself around his cryptic reply, and I don’t even try to understand. I take a deep breath, expecting myself to feel panic, fear—something, but instead, I don’t really feel anything at all. Other than confused.

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