Page 23 of Ballistic

Asleep.

A faint creak chased my steps when I kept on toward the open living room and adjacent kitchen. Rummaging through cupboards produced nothing but a bag of Doritos, whiskey, cans of chicken broth that left me silently gagging, and a deck of playing cards.

The refrigerator housed some strawberries, blueberries, cucumbers and carrots—stuff he’d tried to feed me between bowls of broth. Beside them sat rows of bottled beer and a small carton of milk. None of it appealing to whatever appetite was gnawing at me.

“Damn it,” I whispered, my hand trembling as I closed the door to the fridge.

I made my way down to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, passing Dax’s sleeping form once again. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror, I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out some pill bottle from the shelf inside. Not the small pink pills I’d come to crave, but tiny green ones inside an unlabeled bottle that could’ve been anything.

I didn’t care. I needed the ache, that intense craving for something I couldn’t pinpoint, to go away.

Flutters of excitement tickled my chest as I twisted the cap and dumped two pills onto my palm, before setting the bottle back onto the shelf. Standing over the sink, I let the water run for a second, and as I raised my cupped hand to pop the pills into my mouth, a hard smack against my knuckles sent them flying into the adjacent bathtub.

I whipped my head toward where Dax stood in the doorway, face tinged with fury. “Those were fucking Fentanyl, one milligram tabs. Street grade, which means those two could’ve killed you just now.”

“I need something. I’m … feeling sick.”

He reached out for me, but I swatted his hand away. On his second reach, he managed to wrap his arms around me, and my heels scratched across the old tiles as he dragged me out of the room.

Squirming and kicking, I fought to get away, while he tugged me along, toward his room.

“I’m not fucking you!” I snapped my head back, which he dodged, and jerked in his arms, but to no avail.

That steel grip only tightened around me as he carried me into the dark bedroom. “You’re not fucking me. And I’m not fucking you. I’m gonna stay with you through the night.”

One firm shove from behind knocked me onto the bed. I bounced forward to get away, but his flat palm between my breasts prodded me backward, and he slid onto the bed beside me, blocking my escape. “What you’re craving is touch. That’s how the shit works. Chemicals are released when someone touches you.” Arms banded around me, he tugged me into his body, his hard chest pressed against my back.

I wriggled and squirmed, my heart feeling as if it might explode through my ribs with all the effort to fight him. For what seemed like a half hour, I twitched and kicked in his arms, until exhaustion settled in. How the hell he held onto me so tightly that whole time was a mystery. Like the guy was made of hard iron and steel.

Finally stilling in his arms, I breathed hard to settle the pounding inside my chest. And that’s when I felt him. Really felt him. The soothing strokes against my arm that sent goosebumps across my flesh. The tickle of skin against mine, and the euphoria that followed. Heaven, if such a place existed. My eyes grew heavy, my breathing calmed. Skin prickled with the relaxation that warmed my muscles, as though I’d been wrapped inside a wonderfully snug cocoon.

He knew exactly what I’d needed.

“Dax,” I said, my voice weak with ecstasy. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve had bad nights on just about every drug out there.” Even his deep voice vibrating inside his chest and against my back felt incredible. As if every part of his body was some kind of tool designed to delight the senses.

“Why d’you take lethal doses of Fentanyl?”

“I don’t anymore. I got clean.”

“Why keep them?”

“Prove that I can. That I don’t need them.”

“Don’t you?” I asked, breathing in the scent of him from the pillow below me.

“I hope not.” His legs brushed mine when he stretched and shifted on the bed behind me, never once loosening his grip. Not a single inch of the man was soft, every part of him that touched me a rugged mass of iron pressing down on my bones. “Holy fuck, are you stubborn and feisty as all hell. You’ve got me worn out,” he said on a yawn.

I fought the smile tugging at my lips. I was stubborn. And my feisty nature happened to be the one thing Dmitry had always admired about me. There was typically no compromise. No matter how powerful the man, I rarely backed down.

* * *

I rode my bike up to the iron gate, most of which was hidden behind thick green vines that stretched half a block in either direction. The ginormous house sat back across two football fields of a yard, impossible to get anyone’s attention. How the hell could I show up if I couldn’t get in?

Through the skinny branches, I scanned over a box whose outer cover had rusted a bit, and opened it to a pad of numbers and a red button beside a speaker. With one quick press, I bent forward and said, “hello!”

Waited.