Tonight, for the first time in months, I don't dream of the safe house.
I dream of calloused hands. The smell of pine. A voice that scrapes through me, gravel and stone.
The thought jolts me half-awake. When did I start feeling safe? When did I let my guard down enough to dream about something other than gunfire and shattering glass?
Dangerous, whispers the voice in my head.This is how it starts. You feel safe, you depend on him, and then—
Through the wall, the couch creaks. A low grunt of pain.
I close my eyes tighter and pretend I don't want to feel his hands on me again.
Chapter Five
Diesel
Day three.
She's wearing my shirt.
Only the shirt—a black henley hanging to mid-thigh, sleeves shoved up past her elbows because they're twice as long as her arms. Her clothes are drip-drying in the bathroom.
I've been failing not to look at her all morning.
The collar gaps when she moves. Her legs are bare against the kitchen chair—miles of pale skin I shouldn't be noticing. She keeps tugging at the hem, and every time she does, the fabric shifts across her thighs and I have to find somewhere else to put my eyes.
She doesn't know what she's doing to me. She can't.
Wearing my shirt isn't about seduction. It's survival. No washer, no dryer—I haven't gotten to that part of the renovation yet, and I'm not about to take her to the clubhouse to do laundry. So she's washed her clothes in the sink before dawn while I lie on the couch pretending I can't hear every splash.
My head knows this.
My beast has other ideas.
I focus on the stove—sausage links popping in the cast iron, eggs (six of them, because orcs eat and I need something to do with my hands), and potatoes fried in bacon grease, the way Red taught me, golden and crisp at the edges.
She's at the table with her coffee, watching me cook. Three days locked in this cottage with nothing to do. I'm the most interesting thing in the room by default.
"You always make this much food?"
"Orcs eat a lot."
"I've noticed."
I plate the food and set hers in front of her—a normal portion, eggs and sausage and a scoop of potatoes. Mine is three times the size.
She picks at her eggs, pushing them around the plate more than actually eating, and I avoid watching the way the shirt slides off her shoulder when she reaches for her coffee, avoid noticing the collarbone it exposes or the edge of the bandage still taped to her skin.
"You always eat this little?"
She glances up. "Only when I'm worried about living to see tomorrow."
She means it as a joke. Her mouth quirks, waiting for me to laugh.
I don't.
My phone buzzes.
I check it without thinking. Crow. Car spotted on Route 9. Ran the plates—rental from Atlanta. Could be nothing.
