Page 22 of Lost Touch

Drew jerked his hand back like I’d burned him.

I bit my lip, and Drew stared at my mouth, making me bite harder. His breath started coming a little faster.

Shit.

Still naked. He could pin me against the car and…

“Just check out my arm,” I said, more brusquely than I’d meant to, fear making me snippy. “I’ll get over it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He reached out again, took hold of me, and bent down to examine my arm, using the fingers of his other hand to poke and prod. I stood passively, trying not to show any other reaction, wondering how much it would hurt if I could feel it. “Nothing’s broken, I don’t think. You have a nasty bruise coming up. Maybe rest it for a couple of days in case there’s a sprain or something. If it swells, or anything else, I’ll have the doctor come out.”

I yanked my arm away, unable to bear the warmth and strength of his fingers any longer. Those hands were capable of violence. I’d already known it. But I hadn’t thought they’d be capable of violence directed atme, and the push and pull between wanting to run from him and wanting to throw myself against his broad, hard—yes, still naked—chest and beg him to promise to protect me had me in a state.

“Okay,” I managed.

Drew nodded. “I’ll be right back.” He looked up at last, his brow furrowed. “Promise me you’re not going to take off while I’m getting dressed? I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’ll be here,” I said, and it felt right—but also like signing a high-interest loan or something. In blood.

“Okay.” He sounded dubious, but he left the garage, and a moment later I heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs.

I took a second to close my eyes and take a deep, deep breath, letting it out slowly. It didn’t help much.

A drink sounded good. Maybe I couldn’t taste it, but I needed something. On the other hand, one of us had to have our wits about us.

I headed for the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Caffeine or alcohol. Or a hammer to the head and a fistful of Valium, but I didn’t have that available.

Drew came back down before I’d even finished turning on the machine, in gym shorts and an inside-out black T-shirt. He’d been in a hurry, then, and I tried and failed not to be a little touched. Had he really thought I might take off after all? Yes, because he also had a few fragments of leaves and twigs caught in his wavy dark hair, now that I had the brainpower to spare to notice details. He hadn’t even stopped to take a shower.

“I made coffee,” I said redundantly as the machine started to hiss and spit. Drew hovered in the doorway, looking awkward as hell, big and clumsy in a way he usually didn’t.

Avoiding me, I realized. Giving me my space. I couldn’t help my gaze flicking over toward the laundry room.

Drew let out a pained little sound.

I edged away and sat down at the table, putting its flimsy barrier between me and him. “Have some coffee, okay? And then talk.”

He poured us both a cup without comment, took the other chair, and stared down at the table.

At last, he said, “I think they were trying to enhance me. Make me stronger, or something. More of an alpha.”

Drew stopped abruptly and started to fidget with the handle of his mug, running his finger up and down it. Flicking it, poking at it, and I was going to go nuts wanting to reach over and slap his hand.

More of an alpha. I turned that around in my head for a minute, since he didn’t show any sign of going on.

“What does that mean?” I prompted him when the silence had started to make my brain feel like it had a cheese grater rubbing on it.

Drew’s gaze flicked up from his frowning contemplation of the coffee mug, and he shrugged. “Like I said. Stronger, faster, harder to kill. That was what I thought, anyway. But if they did boost my alpha magic, then…more aggressive. Less self-control. More of—Jesus. This sounds so fucked-up. It sounds like I’m trying to excuse what happened—what I did to you. Earlier. I’m not, okay?”

He sounded so desperate that I couldn’t do anything but nod. Anything I said would only make this worse. His eyes pleaded with me, dark brown now without any gold at all, clear and honest.

“More of the urge to mate,” he went on. “To claim what I—claim. Whatever I want. And just to get off. Sorry. That’s so fucking crude. But it’s the truth. I’ve jerked off more since we got out of there than most of my life.”

The last few words came out in a rush, like he could hardly stand to say them out loud. He had one hand clenched so tight around the mug handle that I knew it’d break any second, and he couldn’t look at me again.

Just as well, because I couldn’t have met his eyes either, not even with a gun to my head and an offer of a million dollars.

I stared down at the table, a barrage of images crowding my mind’s eye.

---