Page 20 of Ravaged With You

“Please, I—”

He flips me around and tosses me back inside. I stumble to my knees, and by the time I’ve righted myself, he’s gone.

I take five quick, deep breaths, then scramble for the back door. I close it, then lock it, then simply stand there, my body numb with a combination of fear and relief. I want to go outside and see how he got into the yard. He must have used bolt cutters on the gate’s padlock. Or used a ladder to get over the steel fencing. But there’s no way I’m going outside right now.

I take another deep breath, then go into my bedroom and get the handgun I keep there. My ex-military father started taking me to the range when I was ten years old. He taught me gun safety and how to shoot straight. But, dammit, you never seem to have a gun on your person when you need one.

I have it now, though fat lot of good it’ll do me since the attacker is thankfully gone.

Then—holy shit—there’s a rattle at the front door.

The son of a bitch is back? Rage bubbles through me, overtaking the rising fear, and I rush forward. I rip open the door and level the gun right at his face. “No way, you fucker.”

“Jesus Christ, Jo, it’s me.”

Red is standing in front of me with his hands up in the air. At least that’s what my brain registers in that moment. But somehow he’s moved, because a half-second later, his hands are no longer in the air, they’re around me, and the gun is in his hand.

“If I could do that, so could whoever the hell you meant to be pointing that thing at.” His voice is hard, and I can hear both anger and concern.

“I thought you were a bad guy.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you run out the back?”

I start to sob. I don’t know. I should have. I know that. My father always said the gun was a last resort. But my husband’s dead, and I don’t know why, and a stranger attacked me, wanting something that Mel had. I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t like it. Worst of all, I’m scared.

But I don’t say anything or any of that to Red. Instead, I simply look into his eyes, then choke on tears as I say, “I’m having a really bad day.”

Chapter Six

“You’re bleeding,” Red says. His finger brushes my upper lip, and I shiver, turning my face away, embarrassed by how much I want to lean into him. To let him comfort me and wash away my fears.

“It’s just a scratch. I’ll be okay.” I sniffle. The truth is, all I really want to do is curl up and cry and pretend like none of this is happening.

Instead, I tilt my head back, searching his face through the blur of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I almost shot you, and I’m sorry I’m a mess. I just have no idea what’s going on.”

“Come on.” His voice is as gentle as the palm he presses against my back. “Let’s get you settled.”

He shuts the door and leads me to the couch, then sits me down. I curl my legs up under me in the corner, then pull a pillow into my lap. He’s sitting sideways, facing me, and when he bends forward, for one strange moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Stranger still, I think I want him to, if only so that I can slip outside of myself, and for a few glorious, blissful moments, forget the hell that has become my world.

But he’s not kissing me. Instead, he’s looking at my lip. He pulls a tissue from the box on the table and dabs gently at it. I bite my lower lip, but the reaction isn’t because of pain. It’s because of him—this broad-shouldered man who had once been the focus of my fantasies. A soldier who has seen wounds much worse than mine, now treating me so gently.

A man who, because of grief or loss or lingering terror, has slid quite inappropriately into my thoughts.

I turn away, afraid he can read the truth in my eyes. “It’s fine.”

“It will be,” he agrees. “It’s barely a scratch. But facial wounds always bleed a lot. Does it hurt?”

I shake my head, then realize I’m crying, as if in contrast to my negative response. “No. No it doesn’t hurt. I just ... God, Red. I’m a mess.” I draw in a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I know.” He puts down the tissue and leans forward, taking my hands. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”

I swallow and nod.

“Tell me what happened before I came. How did you cut your lip? Was someone here? Is that why you got the gun?”

I can tell from his tone that he already knows—or at least suspects—the answer.