Page 31 of Slay Ride

He zips up his pants, stuffs his hands into the pockets, and... his eyes widen. His hands move to his rear pockets, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but his eyes widen even further. If he endures much more shock, I fear they’ll fall out of his head.

“Don’t tell me you lost the fucking keys to the snowmobile.” I drop the sweater back to the hearth, but I don’t take my eyes away from Bennett.

He shakes his head and starts removing his pants again. “No, the pants are still damp. They need to dry a little more beforeI set out. Besides, you need to eat. I’m surprised you can even stand up right now.”

As he tosses the pants back to the hearth, I hear a reassuring jingle when they land on the stones. What isn’t reassuring is the sudden wave of dizziness that sweeps over my brain like a fog.

I step toward the couch, and the darkness gives way to a fuzzy white light. Sound fades away, and I can’t tell if I’m standing or falling. No, I’m definitely falling. That’s the floor, and it’s getting closer.

Arms wrap around me before I strike the ground. Bennett lifts me into his arms as if I’m made of paper. Ifeellike I’m made of paper. He could fold me up so small that I would just disappear.

He places me on the couch and covers me with the horrid quilt again, though I can hardly feel it. It’s more like a faraway memory.

“You have to rest,” he says, and there isn’t a mean bite to his tone now. His voice is like honey. It glides over my skin, warm and smooth, seeping into secret places like a balm. “Just stay here and let me make something for you to eat. You need some calories.”

I hate that he’s right, but he is. I didn’t eat anything for dinner, breakfast, or lunch. On top of the dehydration and hypothermia, I’ve seriously put my body through some shit today.

“Maybe Kindra and Ezra will come for us tonight,” I say as I settle into the quilt. The dizziness has finally passed, but I still feel hazy.

Another pot clangs.

I wince. “What are you cooking, anyway? I can’t imagine there’s much here.”

“Just sit there and sip your broth like a good girl.”

God, he’s the worst.

“Is there any alcohol?” I ask as I stare into the almost empty mug. “A spot of something strong would be good right now.”

“There’s a surprising amount of alcohol in these cabinets, but you’re too dehydrated to drink any of it right now.”

“Since when do you care if I give myself the worst hangover known to man?” I peer at him over the back of the couch when he doesn’t answer. “Aw, does Bennett have a wittle crush on Cat?” I say. The goal is to annoy him to the point that he plays waiter and brings me the booze. “Are you doing a big protect with your alpha-dog energy?”

“You know what? Fuck you.” Bennett slams the wooden spoon onto the counter, rips open a cabinet (literally), and grabs the neck of a glass bottle. Then he stomps over and holds it toward me. “If you want to make yourself sick, be my guest, but when the sun comes up tomorrow, I’m leaving. With or without you.”

If he thinks I’m opening this myself, he has lost his mind. I look up at him and wait.

Bennett jiggles the bottle and raises his eyebrows. “Cat, do you want the booze or do you not want the booze?”

I bat my eyelashes and form the perfect pout with my lips.

“How many times has that actually worked for you?” He sets the bottle on the coffee table and walks away.

With a huff, I lean forward and grab the frigid glass. I guess I can’t win all the time. But as I try to peel the plastic from the bottle’s neck, a fiery pain rockets through my fingertips when they touch the icy glass. The bottle slides from my hands and clatters to the floor. I let out a yelp when I flex my fingers. It feels as if they’re splitting open.

Before I can register what’s happening, Bennett is beside me. He takes my hands in his and begins checking them over.

“Can you come closer to the fire?” he asks. “I can’t see over here.”

I nod, and he helps me up. At first, I’m worried he’s just pretending to be nice so that he can push me into the fire. He’ll tell everyone I tripped and that he did what he could to save me. But then he says something I don’t expect.

“You aren’t pretending to be hurt so you can push me into the fire, are you?”

I cough to cover the laugh that tries to escape my chest. “No. If I wanted to attack you, the bottle would have been better than trying to push your big head into the fire. You’d just clog the chimney.”

The hearth is too warm to sit on comfortably, so we kneel together in front of the fireplace. He turns my fingers toward the flames, and even the minimal heat feels like I’m fingering Satan’s asshole.

“Ow,” I whisper as I pull away.

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