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“I need your help.”
“My help?”
Not letting go of the gun, he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt. When he lifts it over his head, exposing hard abs and impressive pecs, my mouth goes drier with fear.
He’s inked. Phrases are tattooed under his breast, on his chest, and on the curve between his neck and shoulder. The head of a dragon peeks from under his waistband, blowing flames over his hip.
Keeping his strong arms tangled in the sleeves, he turns around. A gasp escapes my throat. There’s a hole in his shoulder, and from it oozes a steady trickle of blood.
Chapter 3
Cas
This man, Ian, who stole Mint’s car, was shot. I know a gunshot wound when I see one.
My throat constricts. It’s not because of the blood. I’m not the queasy type. If anything, I’m fascinated by the internal mechanics of the human body. It’s the reason he got shot that twists my stomach.
I lick my lips again, wishing I’d put on balm and not the twenty-four-hour lipstick that dries out my skin. “Have you killed someone?”
Ian turns back to face me. His lips quirk as if my words are funny. “No.”
The steel sink under my palms suddenly feels colder. “Have you hurt someone?”
He holds my gaze squarely. “No.”
“What have you done?”
Transferring the gun from one hand to the other, he pulls his arms free from the sleeves of his T-shirt and carelessly flicks the garment aside. It lands on a chair. His pecs bunch as he flexes his arms. He’s still clutching the gun, and my gaze is drawn to it as he says in the same careless way he discarded his T-shirt, “Bad things.”
There’s a glint in his eyes. No remorse. A silent challenge.
He’s right. I don’t want to know. The less I know, the better are my chances of getting out of here alive.
My heartbeat doesn’t equalize. It still pumps eratically, doing its best to supply oxygen to my adrenaline-drenched body. Yet a part of me, a very small part, is reassured. That’s why he took me with the getaway car. That’s why he chose me and not Mint. He didn’t bring me here to do wicked, bad things. I was simply the safer option. In Ian’s wounded condition, Mint might have been able to fight him off. Although he still looks pretty much in fighting shape.
“Under the sink,” he says.
My gaze locks onto his. I follow it down the path he rakes over my body to my calves. For a moment, I’m disoriented, but then I understand what he wants.
Stepping aside, I pull open the cupboard door. It smells musty inside. Yellow watermarks stain the shelf. A first aid kit is pushed to the back. I take it out and hand it to him with a shaking hand.
“Thank you.” He gives me a soft smile before putting the box on the table and rummaging through it with one hand, all the while holding the gun in the other.
After placing a few items on the table, he walks to the sink with that gun in his hand and clasps my hips between his palms. My heart skips a beat. The misfunctioning is minute, but that little is enough to make me suffer from a lack of breath. His palms are warm, burning through the fabric of my jeans. The hard metal of the pistol presses against my hipbone. A sharp point digs into my skin. It hurts a little, but much more disconcerting is the attentiveness in his wise, brown eyes as he assesses my face.
My lungs protest at the irregular beat of my heart, and my breath catches on a hitch. His gaze slips from my lips to the vein I can feel pulsing in my neck. Lower still, he’s watching my chest rising and falling under the feeble protection of my jacket.
When he looks back at me, something sparks in his eyes. Amusement? No, victory. I’m grappling for words, but anything I’ll say right now will be a lie. This isn’t the kind of man who can be fooled. He’s too experienced, too worldly, too jaded. He’ll smell a lie like a lion smells blood.
My heart stutters as he drags the gun over my skin, caressing my hipbone with the barrel, but he gently sets me aside and takes two plastic dishes from the drip rack.
I suck in air as if I’ve just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean, doing so quietly, but it’s too late. He’s seen my reaction already, how his hands both terrified and excited me. Tingles still run over my skin where he’s touched me.
He fills the dishes with water from a flask and adds a generous amount of liquid soap. He gives each a stir with his finger and carries them to the table.
“Come,” he says.
My legs carry me closer despite the fact that my brain screams at me to find a weapon, stab him in his wounded shoulder, grab the keys, and get the hell out of here.
