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When he became the monster who destroyed anything and everything in his path.
She hadn’t seen that.
He hoped she never would.
Sometimes he couldn’t stop the storm that raged inside him until he was pepper-sprayed or tased and bound hand and foot.
Until he was contained like an animal. In a cage, away from everyone else. Unable to hurt anyone else.
Removed from the rest of society because he was a danger.
Sometimes it only took the smallest thing to push him over the edge.
It was why he hadn’t gone up that mountain yet. Because he knew once he did, he’d need an outlet.
And right now, he had none.
If he lost it, truly fucking lost it, he would end up back in a concrete box and then he’d have no way to keep Red safe.
None.
And he needed to keep her safe.
She needed him.
For a reason he couldn’t understand, he also needed her.
“Sig.”
His name in her mouth always twisted something deep inside him. “Yeah.”
“Come to bed.”
This still had to be part of his dream. It couldn’t be real.
A woman he had found naked, running for her life in the woods, a woman who he’d only known for not even two weeks, a woman he wanted to touch but couldn’t... That woman wanted him next to her. In his bed.
The only time a woman was in his bed was when he was fucking her. Otherwise, there was no reason for her to be there. None.
Besides being forced to share a bed with his baby sister, he’d only slept with a female once without fucking her. And that was the other night with Red.
He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to do it a second night.
No, he knew he wasn’t fucking strong enough.
But he’d do it for her.
Because he’d do anything for her.
He had no idea why a connection existed between them.
He knew nothing about her except for bits and pieces of what happened on that mountain. Even that wasn’t much at all.
But then, she knew nothing about him, either. All she knew was he was the man waiting at the bottom of that mountain for her. To help her survive.
Maybe nothing else mattered.
Only that. That single moment.
Maybe she came into his life to help him survive, too.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, wiping away that unfamiliar dampness.
Jesus Christ, someone must have slipped some good shit into his weed. Because all those crazy thoughts had to have come from some weird trip he was on.
“Sig,” she called softly.
He didn’t answer her this time. Instead, he moved. He slipped out of his jeans and let them drop to the floor, glad he thought ahead to wear boxers.
Then he moved to the bed and climbed in, tucking his legs under the cool sheets and biting back a groan at how fucking good his mattress felt.
This time she was already on her side, facing him. He tucked his arms under his head and stared up at the dark ceiling. And though he left a safe gap between them, she closed it, until her hard belly pressed into his side and her hand found his.
She didn’t hold it, fuck no. She traced her fingers along his, from fingertips to wrist, up his forearm, over his bicep and his shoulder. Her touch light. Not sexual, just an exploration.
“I forget what it’s like to be touched simply because you want to be touched or someone wants to touch you. Because they want to appreciate you, not hurt you. It’s a different type of touch.”
“Yeah, Red, it is. No fuckin’ doubt.” Did she want him to touch her, too? It was smarter to just keep his hands to himself.
“I miss it.”
“What?”
“Being touched without it hurting.”
Jesus Christ! “Red—”
She kept talking. “I miss that connection between two people. Touch can be a form of communication. Good, bad, even indifferent.”
“Red...”
“But touch is important. So important. I saw it on a news segment once. Volunteers at a hospital holding preemies. It helps them. And I’m sure it helps the volunteers, too.”
“Red...”
She pressed her fingers over his lips to quiet his growing anxiety at her starting something he couldn’t finish. For her touch to cause a reaction that was way more than only communication.
He should get out of this bed right fucking now and head back to the couch. Fuck that, he needed to head out the door. To another fucking county, even another state.
But he couldn’t move, the fingers that had stopped him from talking now explored his face. They traced his furrowed brow, around his eyes, across his cheeks. They skimmed over the side of his head where his hair was trimmed shorter, over his ear, down his jawline and his beard to his chin. Down his nose, across his lips again, along his throat, over his pounding pulse line, his jumping Adam’s apple, the hollow of his neck. Landing on his chest which lifted and fell like he’d run a mile.
