“Oh, shit. I’ll take that.” My killer-savior kneels, reaching down a few inches and brushing some snow off Trevor’s chest, snagging his cellphone out of his pocket. “It’s nicer than mine. Glad the ax missed it.”
Nope… it’s definitely an unscalable cliff. I couldn’t reach the keys even if I wanted to. It’s absolutelyimpossible.
I’m faintly aware that I’m trying to make excuses for why I go back into the house and help a murderer carry out the body parts left scattered around, piling them up out of sight, but I’m still living on the edge of the panic attack that completely overtook me earlier.
And…
Honestly, this is the first time in a long time that anyone hascaredenough to help me get through it. The last time I had one in front of Trevor, he punched me in the stomach and left the apartment. I was a wreck for days after that. I had to call out of work. I had to make up a lie about food poisoning so Quill didn’t come and put Trevor in the hospital—he’s small, but I’m pretty sure he would have figured out a way. I feel like he’s the only person who has ever cared about me, and by the time I methim, Trevor had already broken me down enough that opening up about all the ways I’m insecure was impossible.
I’ve always been anxious—I’ve been having panic attacks my entire life. It’s too easy for me to get overwhelmed, and too hard for me to process it sometimes. No one has really understood what it feels like, how impossible it is to breathe, to think, to function when something like that is happening. I’m sure Quill would try if he saw it, but I don’t know if he’d really understand how to manage it.
So how is it that the serial killer who came to play out his slasher-movie fantasy could tell what was going on? He knew exactly how to pull me out of that darkness creeping at the edges of my mind, even though I don’t know his name.
It’s a mystery, and it’s the reason I’m silently telling myself that Trevor is down acliff.There’s no escape for me, so I better just make the best of what might be the last days of my life.
When we finally get the mess out of the house, I let out a soft sigh and turn my head toward the window he busted out when he first showed up. I can feel the chill of the air sinking into the house, and there are little drifts of snow already piling up on the bloodstained carpet alongside the glass. At least the splintered door shut with a little manpower. Since my escape plan has beenrolled down an unscalable cliff, I know I probably need to do something to make sure we don’t freeze to death in the middle of the night.
“We should put something in front of that. It’s supposed to get really cold and I…” I trail off, my eyes flicking to my… captor? Savior? I don’t know… “What’s your name?”
I shouldn’t be asking him. I already saw his face, so he really doesn’t have a reason to let me live. But I can’t help it.
He turns to me, and the scrutiny in his gaze makes me feel warm… or maybe it’s the fact that I’m remembering how I folded like a wet paper towel and got on my knees for him without asecond thought. Finally, he plucks one of the paintings off the wall, shoving it over the broken window as he speaks.
“Streeter.”
I mouth the name to myself as he drags a chair over to secure the painting place. I’ve never heard anything like it before.
“Thank you, Streeter.” Should clarify what I’m thanking him for? “I…” I swallow hard and feel my cheeks burning as he turns and fixes me with those almost honey-colored eyes. “I know you’re probably going to kill me before this is all over and done with, but…” I draw my lower lip between my teeth, worrying it enough that I taste the faintest hint of copper. “I’ve never had anyone help when I… when it gets bad like that. No one really understands, and I…”
I can’t quite manage to get the words together, as much as I want to. I should still be working on my plan to escape. I should have run out the door while he had his back turned to me and tried to get out before the snow got too deep. Maybe I couldn’t drive down the mountain, but I’d seen plenty of cabins on the way up. Someone would have helped if I’d banged on their door.
I should have done a lot of things, but instead I just tilt my head up to look at him as he steps closer to me.
“You said you were going to keep me warm during the storm, Hummingbird. You can’t do that if you’re curled up in a corner freaking out.”
It sounds so callous on paper, the way he says it so matter-of-factly. I would probably feel bad if it weren’t for the way his gaze drifts across my face, lingering on my eyes, the jump of my pulse in my throat. His hand follows the stare, fingers lighting against the side of my neck. His thumb brushes slowly along the hollow of my throat and I’m pretty sure I let out a little whimper.
From the way my heart is beating, he’s going to think I’m about to have another panic attack. The thing is, I’m not sure I have the energy for it. After what nearly happened—theadrenaline surge, the blow job, the panic attack, and dumping the bodies…
I’m exhausted. I’m cold. My entire body is fighting against the need to shiver, because I want to at leastlookbrave when I’m staring up at him. It’s the best way to make sure he doesn’t kill me.
Even though he just helped me, even though he’s been oddly sweet, and I can feel what is very much an inappropriate attraction that’s probably a trauma response more than anything… well, I have memories of Trevor telling me howunappealingit is when I’mweakdancing through the back of my head. I hate how much the way he treated me has colored my sense of self, but maybe I can use it as a guideline to keep the man in front of me from killing me now. Step one: don’t appear weak. Step two: make myself as appealing as possible.
I swallow hard against his touch and nod, faintly aware that his fingers are warm and rough against the side of my throat, and I’m pretty sure I can still smell the metallic scent of blood coming off him. “I’ll do whatever you want,” I say, aware that my voice is almost trembling again when I offer myself up to him.
What Iwantto do is take a shower. There’s blood on my hands, there’s probably blood on my clothes. There’s blood onhishands where he’s touching me. The entire living room needs to be scrubbed down, because there’s blood on the floor.
Blood, blood, blood.
Ohshit.
“I don’t know if you could handle that right now.” The heat in Streeter’s answer is so palpable I’m pretty sure it could melt the snow outside. He leans down, brushing his lips back and forth across mine until I feel like I’m turning into a puddle. His arm snaking around my waist is the only thing that’s keeping me upright.
Am I going into shock? Is my body going to just collapse because of the extreme contrasts of emotions I’ve been feeling all day? Or is it just that my mind wants to white out and forget everything but the way his lips feel pressed against mine?
Inappropriate.
Absolutely inappropriate.
