Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4) - Page 302
I’m fucked.
Chapter Two
Raylin
The rain lashes at the windows until late the next morning, and I watch it, sipping at some yucky instant coffee I found stashed in the pantry room. Dry and protected behind the bay windows facing the beach, I’m warm and cozy.
It sucks, because it leaves my mind loose to wander and visit worries, fears, and the memory of a certain muscular guy pressed up close and personal, asking me if I’m okay.
It also brings back the memory of the thug after me, and I feel itchy with nerves.
He can’t have followed me here. What is this, a James Bond film? Nobody knows where I am.
I slide out of the loveseat someone thoughtfully placed there—to watch the rain like I am? I wonder—and think about Storm or whoever he is as I rinse my cup in the kitchen sink.
What was he doing last night jogging in the hurricane? Okay, almost hurricane, and sure, it’s his own business, but only a blind man would have missed the front coming. He was right outside the house whose fence he was fixing when I noticed and went to take shelter.
Instead, he headed out for a run. On the surf.
A little disturbed at the dark suggestions my mind offers as to his motivations, I return to the terrace. Pushing the screen door open, I walk to the end, to the steps where he held me by the hips and asked me who I am. The tiles are cool under my feet, and my toes curl a little at the sensation.
He headed into the storm. Did he want to hurt himself? Put himself in danger?
None of your business, Ray. None of your damn business. Don’t you have enough with worrying about your own little self? Hitmen sent after you not enough trouble for you?
So it makes no sense that I go into the bathroom and fix my hair, pulling the dark strands into a ponytail, and straighten the halterneck top of the only dress I own. Just on the off chance he passes by later.
Pathetic. Seriously.
The rain isn’t showing any sign of letting up. No internet, no TV. It’s like being stranded on a desert island. Some more digging unearths a stack of musty romance novels, and I plop myself back in the loveseat to read. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, too comfortable to move.
I wish I could stay here forever, in this bubble of warmth and safety. Not having to worry about myself, my family and the debt collectors after me.
Not having to remind myself every day to keep breathing and that life is worth living, even when the people who are supposed to look after you, love you above all, have abandoned you to the wolves—no, worse.
When they’ve set you up as a sacrificial goat and watch from the shadows to make sure you’re caught, so they can go free and enjoy life without complications. Without my complication.
And not a tear left to shed over them.
It’s later afternoon, the sun dipping low over the horizon, the rain turned into a drizzle. I’m on the terrace, finishing my crackers and peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, when he appears, running toward me, his head bowed and the moisture gleaming on his bare torso.
I swear, he’s doing this in purpose. I choke on my cracker and reach for the glass of water I have nearby. Such a body shouldn’t exist outside of romance novel covers.
Such men aren’t for the likes of me.
But as I’m getting up to carry my dish and glass inside, he turns and jogs up the beach.
Toward me.
Crap.
In danger of tripping and falling again, I back away toward the house door. Not fast enough. He bounds up the steps and takes the dish and glass from my hands. He puts them down, and I stare at him, my mouth hanging open.
“What are you doing?” There. Words. Finally.
“Checking on you.” He turns my hands over in his much larger ones and runs his thumbs over my scored and bruised palms.
The sensation does strange things to my body and mind. I mean, we’ve established I’m in lust with the guy, but this? This light caress shoots straight to my core. I’m throbbing so badly between my legs I think I might go over the edge just like that, and there’s a pressure in my chest I don’t understand.
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