“Please stop,” I croak, my lungs burning for air.
Damian takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not answering your question, though, am I? I kept you because you have no one. There’s not a single fucking person out there who cares if you live or die. I saw someone who was shoved into this fucked up world and left to fend for herself, and she couldn’t. I saw someone who needed to be protected.” He sucks in a ragged breath, and then he whispers, “I see the most beautiful fucked up woman, and you’re perfect. You’re so beautifully broken, and it makes me want to keep you.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t hear the words he’s saying. They hurt too much.
I scramble off of the bed and walk away from Damian and his honesty, unable to process any of it.
I’m not sure what he feels for me. I’m not even sure how I feel about him. But I’m dead sure I’m far from ready for what’s between us.
I was right. It’s time to leave.
Chapter 16
CARA
It’s the middle of the night when I listen for any movement from Damian’s room. Not hearing anything, I dart back inside my room and rush to the closet. I get dressed in a pair of jeans, a warm shirt, and sneakers. After dragging a sweater over my head, I grab the passport and I.D.
Unable to find a bag for the rest of the clothes, I shove another pair of underwear in my pocket. I take a deep breath and ignore the sharp ache in my heart as I slip out of the room.
I creep down the stairs and carefully key in the code for the alarm, praying Damian won’t hear the soft beeps. I’m careful with the locks on the front door, and when I have it open, I quickly sneak out and pull the door softly shut behind me.
Darting down the steps of the porch, I break out into a run as if my life depends on it.
Bye, Damian.
Thank you for everything.
I run like I should’ve run back when I met Steven for the first time. When I get to the main road, I head right, not thinking about where I’m going.
I need to get away from my feelings for Damian, unable to deal with them.
This is for the best.
I’ll never be whole again. Damian deserves more than my broken, filthy soul.
I hear a car, and soon lights appear, breaking through some of the darkness. Not thinking of my safety, I wave my arms, but the car just keeps going. I’m stupid for leaving in the middle of the night. No sane person will stop for some random stranger.
I quicken my pace to put as much distance between me and the house, just in case Damian wakes up and notices I’m gone.
I’ve been running for a long while when I hear another car. I wave my arms as it gets closer, praying with burning lungs this one will stop.
Please.
It slows, and bright lights flash over me. Anxiety eats at my insides until the vehicle pulls up next to me. It’s one of those homes-on-wheels things. I’m not sure what they’re called. RVs?
There’s a middle-aged woman behind the wheel, and she’s smiling. “Honey,” her heavy accent drags the word out, “what’s a little thing like you doing out alone in the middle of the night?”
“I need a ride, please.” My tone is tense and hopeful. She’s a woman, a smiling one – that’s a good sign, right?
“Hop on in then,” the woman says with a concerned look on her face. I quickly open the door and get in before my fear makes me run back to Damian. Once she pulls back onto the road, I sigh with relief.
“You running from someone?” she asks, without wasting any time.
I stare wide-eyed at her, not sure what to tell her. I didn’t think the leaving thing through.
“Don’t need to tell me, but a little thing like you running around in the middle of the night, now that’s real dangerous. I’m figuring you’re running from someone more dangerous?”
“I’m… ahh… just traveling,” I blurt out the first excuse that comes to mind. I still have my South African accent, so I’m hoping it will help her buy my excuse.
She gives me a once-over and smirks. “With no bag? You’re backpacking through Chesnee with nothing but the clothes on your back? Why would someone wanna see this little old town?” She looks at me as if I’m some escaped lunatic.
I don’t even know where I am. How screwed up is that?
“I like quiet places.” It’s the only reason I can come up with.
“Annie Wilson. That’s my name. You can just call me Annie, like everyone else.” She starts to ramble. “I’m heading home. Came here for my sister’s funeral. Awful bout of bronchitis took her in the end. Told her the weed was no good for her, but she kept smoking that stuff faster than she could grow it.”