To the Ends of the Earth (Stripped 5)

“Open that,” he says softly, voice laced with menace.

I glance sideways at the glossy wooden panel. Is there a gun inside? He’s waiting for me, infinite patience while blood continues to seep onto his white shirt. My hands grope at the smooth surface, searching for a latch. I must find it, because a small door levers open.

Inside a compartment there’s a neat stash of alcohol swabs, of cotton gauze.

A first aid kit is more terrifying than a weapon. How violent is this man?

His voice runs over my skin, dark and silky. “You need to clean the blood first.”

My breath catches. He takes off his shirt, revealing miles of muscle, tan skin, and tattoos up his arm. The wound looked extreme with blood spilling out, but it hardly registers against the hard-shaped masculinity of this man. He looks like he could have been shot four times and kept going, a machine built from sinew and stone.

He gestures to the cabinet. “Alcohol wipes.”

I jump at the reminder, pulling out three packets with shaking hands.

His body reclines in the seat, watching me through hooded eyes. He wants me to clean the blood? It’s fair, considering I’m the reason he’s wounded. Except that will mean getting close to him. It will mean touching him.

The car sways gentle from the deeply rutted road. It will be an hour until we hit the farmer’s market where I sometimes help sell vegetables. And beyond that? I don’t know what’s beyond these hills, but I’m about to find out.

Keep my back against the side of the car, I scoot around to his side. Already it feels warmer, this close to his body. Like he’s vibrating with energy even while he stays still.

A single drop of blood works down his chest, drawing through the smear left by his shirt. It’s a portrait of anger, of control. It’s a portrait of the despair I felt in that moment.

I fumble with the heavy packets, producing a white cloth. The sharp tang of alcohol fills space. I wrap the damp fabric around my finger, forming a point. He’s still too far to reach, so I scoot a little closer. We’re not touching anywhere, but he’s close enough to grab me.

There’s a lump in my throat. Every time I’ve ever fought.

Every time I’ve ever lost.

It builds inside me until the same sense of despair overcomes me. My finger on the trigger. My heart in pieces. My alcohol-swab-covered finger against his tanned skin, white on dark with crimson soaking through.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks, but he must know the answer.

“You’re a sinner.”

He laughs, the sound reaching into the shadows of my heart. “And what do you think your precious Leader Allen was? Was he a saint?”

I look away, unable to face the mocking in his eyes.

His thumb and forefinger captures my chin. He makes me

confront him, his green eyes serious now. “What did he do to you, little bird?”

He punished me. “The same thing you’re going to do.”

He strokes my skin, almost absently, considering this. “Did he tie you up?”

My heart jumps. Leader Allen didn’t need to restrain me. “No.”

“Did he beat you?”

Sometimes, but mostly I knew better than to fight. “Are you going to beat me?”

A slow smile. “No, little bird. You’re going to like what I do.”

Because I’ll have learned my lesson? “Please.”

His eyes narrow. “You want mercy now? When I’ve got a fucking bullet in my shoulder because of you? I’m not a merciful man, little bird. A fighter. An enforcer. A fucking bulldozer. That’s what I am.”