Page 79 of Wicked Heat

Was that why he was here? Was that what he wanted?

No.

Dammit, no.

It was true that Ash often needed the speed. The rush. The chase. There were times in his life when he’d come close, but despite all the hell in his life, he’d always viciously, painfully, desperately wanted to live.

He’d wanted the thrill to underscore it, sure. But despite what the press said, he wasn’t chasing the reaper, he was clinging to life.

Now, he wanted it more than ever. And not for just himself. Because tonight it wasn’t his monster he was chasing. It was Bree’s.

Once again, he floored the accelerator, eyeing the tachometer needle as it flirted with the red zone. The car gained even more speed, and the outside world blurred into light and shadows as adrenaline surged through his veins, an intoxicating cocktail that dulled the lingering memory of what he’d seen on that tape. Concrete proof that the monsters he’d been outrunning all his life truly did exist.

For Bree’s sake—for his own—he was going to slay them.

As if the thought of her had worked a magic spell, he caught a glimpse of her in the bleachers. Her presence was like a punch in the gut, and he slowed on the next lap, his mind spinning as he wondered why she’d come and how she’d found him.

He didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was there, and as he approached the pit, he skidded to a halt.

His eyes scanned the empty stands, searching for solace in the solitude. He didn’t see her, and for a moment, he thought that he’d only imagined her.

Then there she was.

Bree stood alone in the dim light, her silhouette outlined against the bleachers. The sight of her took his breath away. He could see the strain in her posture, the lingering shadows of her recent trauma etched on her face. And Ash knew he would flip this car right now if he thought it would set her free. It wouldn’t, though.

He might not be his father, but he had money, fame, notoriety, connections. He had the skill to fight death. To say fuck you to the ghosts that haunted him.

But he couldn’t vanquish Bree’s demons.

He’d get her the three million, sure. Come hell or high-water, he’d figure that out.

But that was only a quick fix, not a solution.

The only way he could truly help her—could truly win the woman who’d filled his head for years—was to slay her monsters.

And he didn’t have a single fucking clue how to make that happen.

My heart is pounding as he jogs up the stairs to where I wait in the stands. “I woke up alone, you bastard,” I snap, then pound my fists against his chest as he comes close and gathers me up.

“You goddamn fucking bastard.” Fear fuels my words, pushing them out, wanting to wound, and I scramble out of his embrace as I continue my verbal assault. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I’m revealing too much—I know that. I don’t want this man to know that I care so deeply. That I’ve been standing here, terrified while I watched him circle the track at such a speed that he must have one hell of a talented guardian angel to still be alive. Either that, or he has some seriously mad skills behind the wheel.

It’s the latter, I know. But somehow the extent of his talent doesn’t calm my raging fear or crippling terror.

“Do you have a death wish?” Again, my voice is a shout, and I punctuate the question with a hard shove against his chest. “This is how you’re going to help me? What? Did you update your will? You die, and I inherit enough to pay off my blackmailer? Are you fucking stupid?”

I leave him no room to respond. “The answer is yes, in case you can’t tell,” I continue. “You. Are. Fucking. Stupid. And an asshole for leaving me alone. And a prick because you have a goddamn stupid death wish and that’s a fool’s way out.”

I’m breathing hard, fury blasting out of me like machine gun fire. Fast and harsh and more about the kill than about the aim.

“A goddamn death wish,” I repeat, then shove my palms hard against his chest one more time as he tries again to pull me close and calm me down.

I am so not in the mood to be calm.

“That’s what my shrink says.” His words are so soft that I barely hear him, and it’s only after I finally settle a bit and say, “What?” that I realize his tone might have been an intentional ploy to get me to throttle back.

“The death wish,” he clarifies. “My shrink says I have one.”