A black suit.
His jacket over my shoulders.
An engine vibrating under me while I drifted in and out of dark.
My breath catches.
I know him.
Not really. Not enough. But enough.
He sees it happen on my face.
“There it is,” he says softly.
“You were there.”
It comes out like a whisper.
“Yes.”
“At the club.”
“Yes.”
The lamp trembles in my hands.
I stare at him and try to fit the pieces together. That room. That stage. Men with money in their eyes. Then the cabin and a body on the floor and this man standing over it like something old and merciless.
You took me.
You bought me.
You saved me.
My mind cannot settle on which one is true.
He watches me for one beat too long.
“I took you out of there.”
My throat closes.
“That cabin,” I say.
His jaw tightens once. “You remember some of it.”
Not enough. Just broken pieces that cut when I touch them.
My eyes flick to the bed between us. The dent in the pillow. The rumpled blanket. Him bare-armed and broad-shouldered and devastatingly male in the dark.
Panic floods back so hard I nearly choke on it.
“You were in bed with me.”
His face does not change.
“Yes.”
