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On the heels of that thought, I looked at Wilder again. His head was turned in my direction, his short, dark hair mussed.
I stared at him for a long seconds once again, watching the way his chest rose and fell steadily. I didn’t know anything about medical intervention, wounds of this nature, or the survival rate. I hoped that because he was still alive it was a very good sign, but I didn’t want to bring it up or ask in fear of jinxing it.
I walked over to the small table by the couch and picked up the clothes. It was a pair of jeans and a V-neck white T-shirt. I was a little bigger than the sizes they gave me, but they’d work. I’d make them. Anything was better than the clothes I’d worn and slept in for over a day.
There was also a brand-new toothbrush, a little travel-size tube of toothpaste, and a small toiletry kit that had showering necessities. I knitted my brows. It was like these people thought I was moving in, or hell, like I was at some motel with turn-down service.
I didn’t think too hard on that, because the truth was, I felt grimy and disgusting, and a hot shower was calling to me.
After heading into the bathroom, taking the hottest shower imaginable, hot enough I’m surprised I didn’t burn my skin off, I got dressed and headed back out into the room. I was running the small brush through my long dark hair when I stopped short, seeing Frankie kneeling by Wilder’s bed. My heart jumped in my throat and my breathing stalled. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
I didn’t move, taking shallow breaths, but it felt like my heart was so loud, echoing off the walls and ceiling.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Frankie said in a deep, husky voice. He looked over his shoulder at me, and I could see just from his face that he hadn’t slept all night. The scruff on his jaw was several days thick, and the dark circles under his eyes showed his exhaustion. He knelt on the floor beside the bed, his hand on Wilder’s forearm.
I wanted to say something snarky, pointing out that why wouldn’t I be afraid given the circumstance, but now seemed like a grossly inappropriate time. I didn’t know why I cared about what was appropriate or not with this man, but still, I found myself walking over to the couch and sitting down, the brush still in my hand, the damp strands of my hair hanging around my shoulders and starting to dampen my cotton T-shirt.
He turned his attention back to Wilder, sighed heavily, his wide shoulders and big chest moving up and down from the act, and then he was standing. I saw his hand tighten around Wilder’s forearm before he turned and faced me. Frankie shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. I noticed he still wore the same clothes from last night, the faded blue jeans that looked a little looser around him because he’d been in them for so long, and his dark T-shirt was wrinkled. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it all night.
Despite Wilder and Frankie being identical twins, there were strong differences in both of them. I found Wilder insanely attractive, felt an undeniable pull to him, this strange connection as I held his bleeding body against me in the back of that SUV. But when I looked at Frankie, I felt nothing, no recognition, no attraction. Nothing. Despite him being my kidnapper, I would’ve thought, because he looked exactly like Wilder, that I would’ve felt some form of desire.
But nope, nothing.
I didn’t even know why I was thinking these thoughts, strange rationalizations and conclusions that had nothing to do with—and wouldn’t aid in—helping me figure out what was going on or how to get out of the situation. Maybe it was a form of survival, my mind trying to occupy me with something other than what a shitstorm I was really in?
We stared at each other for a moment, this tension starting to fill me. His stare was intense and dark. Although he wasn’t standing or acting in a threatening manner, I started to shift on the cushion, acutely aware of his gaze on me.
“I want my purse and my phone,” I said, and I was surprised, even proud, at how strong my voice was. “I want to get the hell out of here.” He didn’t say anything, didn’t even react to my words. I assumed he probably expected this from me. He finally sighed and lifted his hand to run his palm over the back of his head.
“I can’t let you leave. You know that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging from the act.
