Chapter Six
Wyn
A chill worksitself down my spine.“Or am I misreading things?”I suck in a sharp gasp at the memory, not wanting to open my eyes.
The smell of rosemary lingers as I take a steady breath.One. I always felt safest when I smelled the pine-like sweetness.Two. Another breath in as I anchor to the nostalgia of that smell from a youth that was never quiet or calm. But it was safe.Three. The oil from its needlelike leaves on my fingertips when I stopped to appreciate the small bushes outside of my mom and Birdie’s house.Four. The way it turned from a floral to more of an earthy scent when it was dried and hung from the kitchen windows.Five.
I flex my fingers, and where I’m lying is plush and soft—velvet. A heavy, almost lethargic-like feeling lingers in my limbs as I shift slightly, and my breathing halts altogether.No! I can’t still be there.
I have to open my eyes and make sure. I glance around, only to find blurred shades of pink and deep burgundy. Bloomed peonies are peppered around a spread of lush greenery. I dig my fingernails into my palm, hoping my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.Try to remember the last thing you saw.The bar. The blood. Julian. I sit up fast, trying to take a full breath, but it’s shaky.Don’t panic.
“Finally,” a deep voice exhales from the other side of the room.
Nearly jumping out of my skin, I scan the space, careening back against the plush velvet pillows stacked behind me. I squeeze my eyes closed and brush my fingers against my lips.This can’t be right.
“Julian?” I say, in utter disbelief.
“Naomi.” he says, sounding groggy. “Or is it Wyn?” With a humorless laugh, he adds, “Hard to figure out which one is the lie.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I say in response, realizing that he is, in fact, sitting across from me, shirtless. Everything from before this comes back immediately. Lifting my hand, my fingers brush over the still-tender spot where he pricked me on my neck with a needle.
His eyes move around my face, and then my body, as if he’s worried. “Are you alright?”
“Am I alright?” I parrot back, lacing it with sarcasm. “You stuck a needle in my neck and drugged me.” I try to tamp down the rush of panic I’m feeling all over again.
He tips his head back with a heavy breath. “To be fair, I didn’t know it was you.”
“I’m not sure how that’s supposed to make me feel better,” I mutter.
“It isn’t,” he says, then immediately adds, “Just tell me you’re okay. You should’ve woken up a while ago.”
He shifts in his chair, and that’s when I notice the white gauze wrapped around his leg—the exact spot I shoved my handy feline weapon into.
“Hope that hurt,”I rush out with narrowed eyes.
He follows my line of sight. “That’s not very nice,” he says teasingly. “I forgot that the last time we were together, you pulled a weapon on me too.”
“The last time we were together, you—” I cut myself off. I remember everything that he and I did when we were together. I hate that my thoughts even wander there. Clearing my throat, I say instead, “Maybe remember what I’m capable of the next time you’re anywhere near me.” I shove off the small blanket that was draped around me, blinking away the wave of dizziness and trying to get my bearings as I swing my legs to the floor. Taking a steadying breath, I stand up. My pulse races and my skin feels overheated as I sway when I stand.
“Easy,” he says softly.
I try glaring at him, but I end up doing a double take, noticing the opaque plastic zip ties wrapped firmly around his wrists and bound to the arms of his chair. Then, looking closer at the way he’s sitting—rigid and legs spread wide. His ankles are bound with zip ties to the front chair legs in the same way.
“Woke up like this.” With a small shrug, he glances at his wrists, fingers wiggling. “Quite a while ago, actually.” He stretches his neck, and I catch a glimpse of his tattoo. “Birdie asked some questions, and I started feeling...tired.” He looks down at his bandaged leg, and then back up to me. “I’m still not sure if I passed out from losing too much blood from the puncture wound you so kindly gave me, or if it was the bittertea your grandmother demanded that I drink.” That charming fucking face of his shines up at me, and I feel bad for hurting him. Then he smiles, almost like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and it makes me not regret it at all, and that instantly pisses me off. I lean into this feeling and decide not to question why I’m not more scared than angry right now.Oh right, because he’s zip tied to a chair.
I shift my blouse and fix the button that’s come undone, when I look back at him, he’s watching every single move I make.Of course, he’s as handsome as I remember.His hair is a bit shorter, but half pulled back and still long. My fingers flex in memory of what it felt like to drag them through those dark strands. Dammit, I can feel my face heating as I remember how he felt pressed up against me, inside me, all over again. Shaking my head, the way he lied comes to the forefront, the way he used me to get what he wanted...What is he doing here?
“I would very much like to get out of this...” he trails off, looking at where his wrists strain, as if I’m going to fix that for him. “Can I get a hand?”
I don’t think so.I flip him off instead as I move toward the arched doorway.
He laughs to himself. “I went back.”
His words have me stopping mid-step, and I turn back around. “Where?” I ask, even though I know where he means. But I’m not even sure if I want to hear the answer.
“It’s been seven months, and I still—” He cuts himself off, and my heart flutters traitorously at what he was about to say.
I tilt my head back and the light coming in from the windowed roof isn’t telling me much about the time of day. There’s condensation blocking any decent view of the yard, but the brushstrokes of honey yellow and the faintest pink in the sky almost make it look like a sunrise, except the sun doesn’t riseon this side of the house. My stomach sinks, thinking about how long I’ve been unconscious.
