Shattered by You (Tear Asunder 3)

“Babe, I honestly don’t think anyone can make you do anything.” My eyes narrowed because he’d read my exact thought and obviously knew me better than I’d anticipated. “Especially with that gun in your pocket.” My breath locked and I put my hand on it. “Come on, we’ll go to the barn to get you dried off. I think there’s a raincoat in there to cover up the mud all over you.”

I thought about it for a second, like five seconds, then nodded and a wet clump of hair fell in front of my eye. Crisis reached up and tucked it back behind my ear before I could react and back away. There was nothing in his expression that was the usual flirty charm he constantly displayed, although ever since he jumped off the cliff with me, he kept the flirting minimal. It may have had something to do with my knee jamming into his balls once we reached shore.

Our hands remained linked, more because I was being accommodating since he wasn’t planning to tell my brother. My legs wobbled, the muscles protesting after the over-exertion of my run. He must have noticed because he let go of my hand and instead, put his arm around my waist to steady me.

I stiffened, clamped my jaw and trudged forward. Why fight a battle that would do more harm than good? I’d learned that while handcuffed to a bed, unable to get away while some stranger hovered over me with lust in his eyes. Save it for when you knew you had a chance at winning.

And I did. I fought before I was handcuffed. Unfortunately for me, they’d liked the fight.

The barn door creaked as he opened it and the horses nickered. Crisis flicked on a dim overhead light and a few horses stomped their hooves and bobbed their heads over their half-doors.

It was well after midnight, so night check had already been done by Hank, the elderly gentleman who lived in his own place at the back of the property. Crisis released me and walked down the aisle, stroking muzzles along the way. He grabbed a few flakes of hay from the end of the aisle and tossed one in each stall. When he was done, his shirt and wet jeans were covered in little pieces of alfalfa.

He peered down at himself. “Fuck. I look like I rolled in basil.” He brushed himself off, green flecks falling to the cement, but most stuck to his wet denim jeans.

I stood where he left me, watching him. His hair dangled across the side of his face in wet loose curls. It wasn’t long enough to sit content behind his ears, but long enough to look messy and dishevelled.

His brows pulled together and it caused a crease between his eyes. Annoyed maybe, something I’d rarely witnessed from Crisis. Despite avoiding him and everyone else, I was still aware of each of them. But Crisis was the only one who was impervious to my cold and aloof disposition. My brother treated me like a piece of glass, and maybe I was, but I liked to think it was bulletproof.

Water puddled at my feet as it dripped off my clothes and hair. I stood like a statue under the light bulb, an illuminated circle around me, bright at my feet then slowly fading out.

The protection from the wind and rain eased my shivering, but goose bumps still rose beneath my heavy wet clothes.

Crisis straightened and our eyes met.

He stood ten feet away, but it felt as if he was next to me. I expected to see desire smoldering because that was what I was used to around men. It was what I expected from every guy, not that I considered myself beautiful or irresistible, but twelve years filled with men’s leering eyes on me, solidified the predictability of what to anticipate from them.

But despite the trained response in me, Crisis was different. I was beginning to realize that in the few months I’d lived on the farm with him, Kite—the drummer in the band—my brother and Kat. Still, my mind fought against it, unwilling to let anything good in because good didn’t happen.

I ran my finger over the scorched words Olaf branded on my wrist. I’d been an object. A possession. Not for Olaf to use, but for others. I’d made him a lot of money.

“Come here,” Crisis said. He didn’t wait to see if I’d follow him as he turned and strode into an empty stall on the right.

I hesitated, not because I was scared, more because I waited for the numbness. It was what I’d been searching for on my run, the embrace of the shield of detachment.

I took several long deep breaths, the wind whistling but no longer haunting as I closed it off.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, felt the comfort of the gun and then followed him, my muddy wet shoes leaving footprints on the rough cement. Clifford, Kat’s appaloosa horse, reached his neck out as far as he could, tilted his head and flapped his lips as he tried to grab hold of my shirt on my way past.

I stepped to the side, ignoring him and entered the stall. Crisis held a handful of yellow straw in his hand. He nodded to the bales in the corner. “Sit.”

“Why?”

There was no grin and I didn’t like that. I liked his grin. I liked how it eased some of the tension in my chest. “Do you plan on arguing with me for long? Because if you are then I’m going to sit down for it.”

I sat on the straw bale.

He approached and I was unclear what he was going to do until I felt the roughness of the straw on my head. I darted to the side, my hand latching onto his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“How do you think they dry off horses?”

I frowned. “I’m not a horse.”

He smirked and I saw that familiar flash of play in his eyes. I waited for his smartass remark; I’d overheard enough of what he said to know Crisis had a mouth on him. “No. But you’re wet.”