Page 10 of The Fire Went Wild

I set her down gently next to the car, propping her head up against the tire. Then I crawl into it to grab her purse. Her ID. Anything else she might have that identifies her.

When I do, I see a picture on the dashboard. I recognize the woman immediately.

Edie. Sawyer’s girl.

I swipe that too and slide it into the redhead’s purse for safekeeping. I also pull her wallet out so I can look at her driver’s license. I want to know her name.

Charlotte Careta.

I sit with that for a moment, her name buzzing a little in my thoughts. Then I slide her ID into place and check the back seat. Nothing there.

I pop the trunk and crawl out of the car. The redhead—Charlotte—is still slumped against the car. Still breathing. Blood still pumping. I can’t stop myself from reaching over and touching her silky hair again, tucking it behind her ear. Then I go around to check the trunk.

There, I find a suitcase, which I pull out. Maybe she’ll hate me less if I bring her things to her.

Then I load everything up in my car. Charlotte I lift in a fireman’s carry, draping her over my shoulder so her hair falls down and tickles the top of my ass. I grip her by the waist, pressing my fingers into her flesh. She’s so warm. So much warmer than what I’m used to. It’s like I’m carrying an armful of fire.

My cock’s been hard since I rammed her car, but it’s only now that it becomes a distraction, straining against the inside of my pants. I’m surprised how much I like it, her soft heat. All the movement coursing through her body, like she’s filled with a million butterflies.

Why the hell would she fuck a freak like you?

It’s another of the gods, a cruel one I rarely traffic with. It’s not wrong, though.

I lay Charlotte down in the back seat of my car, tugging the skirt of her dress down to her knees so she knows I didn’t do anything while she was out. I do let my touch linger a little, though. On the bottom of her thigh, right above her knee, spreading my palm so I can feel her heat and her blood. My cock throbs, and I close my eyes and soak her in, imagining what it would be like if she did want to fuck me.

She doesn’t.

I yank my hand away. Readjust her hem. Look at her for a moment, admiring the outer stillness that hides the riot of movement inside her.

Go.My Guardian’s voice surges up, louder than the others.Hurry.

I slide into the driver’s seat, throw the car into reverse, and slam backward out of the ditch with a squeal of tires and spray of mud and grass.

And then I drive me and Charlotte into the swamp.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHARLOTTE

Iwake up with a hangover from hell, a pounding, rhythmic throbbing banging through my skull. For a moment, I just lay in my bed, trying to remember what the hell I did last night that I feel like I got run over by a truck.

And then it hits me.

Ididget run over by a truck.

Well, not a truck. A car. Driven by that guy I spoke to at the diner?—

The diner. I’m not in my bed. I’m not even in mystate. I’m in fucking Louisiana.

I jerk up to sitting, and the room tilts sideways and then spins around, my head still throbbing. I squeeze my eyes shut, peel them open again. I’m in a bed, a silky patchwork quilt pulled over my legs. The room is dim. It’s nighttime, I think, but there’s a dull yellowish lamplight coming from the corner.

I whip the blanket off my body and roll off the side of the bed. Something jangles, a noise I don’t place until I put my bare feet on the ground and realize there’s a metal cuff around my left ankle that trails a long, heavy chain.

For a minute, all I can do is stare at that chain, barely visible in the room’s sulfurous light. Then I pick it up, the metal cold against my palm, and run through it link by link, dropping it against the dusty hardwood floor with a steady, repetitive clanking until I confirm the other end is attached to the heavy wooden bed frame.

This can’t be real. It doesn’tfeelreal. It feels hazy, like a dream. I keep waiting to wake up and find that I’m hungover in some crappy Louisiana motel. Or even better, my apartment back in California.

It doesn’t happen.

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