The Wayward Sister (The Wayward Sons 5)

“Do you want me to stay tonight? I can. I just need to be back at the lodge by six.”

I shake my head. “No. You’ve done enough.”

“Sierra, it’s not a problem. I don’t mind at all.”

“I’m okay. He didn’t really hurt me.”

“It’s not about pain. He—”

I hold up my hand, fighting off a shudder. I can’t stop thinking about his hands being on me and how he forced me to touch him. No, he didn’t hurt me, but I still don’t feel okay.

“I just want a shower and to go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

She relents, giving me a hug before she goes. I lock the door behind her and head to the shower, stripping off my clothes and tossing them in the hamper. I run the water hot—scalding—burning away the feel of Reid’s demanding hands and the tears that finally fall down my face.

I turn off the shower and dry off, before pulling on my favorite Supernatural T-shirt and a pair of shorts. With wet, tangled hair I walk around the house, turning off lights, finally calming down. That’s when I hear the sound of a motor. I flip off the final light and press my back against the wall. Headlights flash down the driveway, bouncing on the dirt road. I tense, heart racing. I look across the room. My phone is on the coffee table. Calling the police is pointless, it would take them forever to get here. My mind races and I think of the shotgun under my father’s bed. I push off the wall and take one last look out the window. The vehicle races up the driveway and stops with a sharp lurch, rocks flying on impact. Fear is lodged in my throat when I see the Parks Department logo visible on the side of the white truck.

I watch, tired and confused, as Smith gets out of the driver’s seat. He runs his hand through his thick, dark hair and looks up at the house. His face is cast in a shadow that only accentuates his devilishly handsome looks. He shifts, and I see a red bruise under his eye and blood smeared on his lip.

That’s what makes me open the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling my heart flutter. My nerves are still raw.

He climbs the steps, and I feel his eyes on me, looking at my baggy pajamas and wet, tangled hair.

“I wanted to check on you.” His hand balls in a fist by his side—his knuckles are scraped and bruised.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. “You know, back at the bar.”

Pain flashes across his face. “Yeah, I did.”

“Where is he?”

“The police picked him up. He was drunk and tried to assault an officer.” He frowns. “They want you to come in tomorrow and make a report.”

Ah, that’s why he’s here. To tell me to go to the police. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a ranger. Basically law enforcement in his own right. I step into the house and walk to the kitchen, grabbing a towel and wetting it under the faucet. I carry it back and hand it to him.

“You’re bleeding.”

His tongue darts out and licks the split in his lips.

Dammit.

“So, you’ll make the report?” He dabs the cloth over his mouth.

“I’ll think about it.”

He watches me closely and my skin prickles from the intensity. I can’t deal with Smith right now. Not when I’m so close to the edge.

“Do you need anything?”

“Sleep.”

He nods and hands me the towel. A spot of blood spreads through the fabric.

“Keep it,” I say, starting to close the door. His blue eyes hold mine, a million emotions swirling behind them. “Thank you. For tonight.”

His jaw clenches so tight I think it may snap in two. “When I saw him on you…”