Another glance around the room didn’t display any of those items laid over a chair like I had contributed to taking them off. Or even strewn on the floor as though I had ended up in bed with someone and we had clumsily pulled at clothing.
Nothing of mine was in this shoebox of a room.
Which, well, didn’t exactly bode well for me, did it?
If I had not actively participated in removing my clothes, then someone else had done it. And then hidden them somewhere.
Heart thudding – hard and slow like it tended to do when I was starting to panic over something – my hand lifted – heavy, half-numb feeling.
Bandages.
My hands were covered in bandages.
I snagged the edge of the hem of the shirt with the tips of my fingers, nail beds caked with dirt. Like shaving my legs, I never would have let my nails get dirty without cleaning them.
Dread became a living thing, moving in behind me, its hot, sticky breath breathing on my ear, whispering ugly words I tried not to listen to as I inched up the warm fabric.
No panties.
My breath came out in strobes as I swallowed hard against the sick I felt rising in my throat.
I had put on panties.
Nude, completely seamless, the material like butter on the skin, the kind of panties that would never leave lines, but were more comfortable than a thong.
Pushing thoughts away, I kept my focus on the strange feeling in my belly until the material lifted up past where it was coming from, revealing a long, ugly gash crudely sewn up with stitches.
Brows knitting, I tried to put the pieces all together. My lack of clothes. Stubbly legs, too stubbly for just a day of not shaving. Another person’s clothes. Bandaged hands and feet. A giant gash down my belly. The bruises. The weird veil over my mind, the slow feeling of my movements.
But none of the pieces seemed to fit.
If I was hurt badly enough to require stitches, why wasn’t I in a hospital? If someone had done this to me, why would they fix me?
The dog made a whining noise, making me jump, causing the headboard to crack against the wall.
“He’s friendly,” a voice said. Well, no, not said. It was more of a rumble, a growling noise, rough like from disuse.
My breath gasped inward as my gaze shot toward the door, finding it pulled open, a figure standing there in the space.
Taking up all the space, head ducked down a little to even be able to fit under the top of it.
A mountain man.
That was what came to mind first.
Like an actual, real-life lumberjack.
But an attractive one.
He had to be nearly six-five with a wide, strong body. There was no question in my mind that his was the shirt I was wearing, a shirt that fit me like an oversized dress.
As that thought crossed my mind, I remembered my hand was holding up said shirt, exposing my belly, pelvis, legs.
My hand flicked the material down as my gaze held the dark one of the man standing there.
Dark haired, dark-eyed, with a full, dark beard.
There was a roughness to his look, but there was no denying he was attractive either.
I couldn’t claim he was my personal taste. I guess I always went for well-groomed men, lighter haired, freshly shaven.
But even if his look wasn’t my personal preference, he was objectively good looking.
“Well, friendly-ish,” he added when I said nothing, my mind all over the place, not able to latch onto one thought to force words out about it.
“You’re safe,” he added, brows knitting as he watched me.
To that, well, a strange, choked, hysterical noise escaped me.
“You’re in my house,” he went on as another dog muzzle poked into the space between the man and the blocked space behind him. I couldn’t claim to know a ton about dog species, but everyone knew a German Shepherd when they saw one. “I found you in the woods last night,” he told me.
“The woods,” I parroted, voice sounding scratchy, bringing with it a new pain. A rawness in my throat. The flu-like gargled glass sensation, making me swallow hard.
“Pine Barrens,” he clarified.
“Pine Barrens,” I repeated, not finding any sense in those words.
I knew about the Pine Barrens, of course. I had been born and raised in New Jersey. But they were always a sort of foreign idea. I’d always lived in the northernmost part of the state; the Barrens were more toward the south and east.
The last thing I remembered clearly was being on my way to work. It had just been a normal Tuesday. Which would have meant I would have been to work until around six, then would hit the grocery store to grab something to make for dinner, then go home, cook, eat while I watched a show or two, take a bath, go to bed.