I freeze.
He is right there.
For one wild second, all I can do is stare.
Dark hair, sleep-rough and falling over his forehead. A face too hard and masculine to be called pretty, but still unfair enough to make my pulse trip for an entirely different reason. Strong nose. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth cut in a stern line that somehow only makes him look better. Dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Eyes so pale they almost glow in the dim room, silver with a tint of blue that catches the weak light and holds it.
His black T-shirt clings to a chest so broad it makes the motel bed look too small for him. His shoulders are huge. His forearm, where it grips the lamp, is corded with muscle and marked with faint scars that catch my eye before I can stop myself. Even half awake, even sitting there with one knee bent in the rumpled sheets, he looks dangerous in that blunt, devastating way some men do. Like violence fits him too easily.
My stomach drops.
Did they take me to the buyer?
Did they hand me over and leave?
Did he touch me?
Bile rises in my throat.
“Get away from me.”
The words scrape out thin and raw.
He lets go of the lamp at once and lifts both hands where I can see them. Then he shifts back on the mattress, giving me space.
“I am.”
His voice is quiet now. Careful.
I clutch the lamp tighter against my chest and drag myself farther away until my shoulders hit the headboard. The silky chemise sticks to my skin. Thin straps dig into my shoulders. I hate it. Hate how little it covers. Hate that I woke up in it with a stranger in bed with me.
He sees my gaze drop to it. Sees the panic sharpen in me.
“You’re still wearing what they put you in.”
The words land heavy.
They.
Another flash.
A microphone.
A clipboard.
Hands gripping my arms backstage.
Cold air.
Trees.
A cabin.
Blood.
I blink at him.
Blood on his knuckles.
