Page 11 of His Cruel Exception

“Calm down,” he says quietly.

I try. Or at least I think I try, but my body doesn’t seem interested in listening. His hand rises toward my face and I flinch before I can stop myself. Embarrassment joins the fear already twisting inside

His hand freezes in the air, and for the briefest moment, neither of us moves. His hand then continues more slowly, not really touching me, his fingers drifting through the narrow space in front of my lips.

“Shh. You need to rest.”

My mouth feels so dry that my tongue catches against the roof of it when I try to speak. “Where …” My voice comes out too scratchy, forcing me to swallow before I try again. “Where am I?”

“Somewhere you can sleep,” he replies.

That doesn’t clear anything up for me, but I’m not courageous enough to ask him to elaborate. I look down at myself again, at the dark silk on my body, and the question that has been growing inside me since I woke becomes impossible to ignore.

Someone undressed me.

Someone saw me naked.

I hate that I even have to ask. “Did you …” I begin then stop myself.

“Did I what?” He asks.

Did you …” My throat tightens around the words. “Did you have sex with me?”

He is silent for one horrible second and then he chuckles. I feel so humiliated to have asked and I wish I could just disappear beneath the duvet entirely.

“If I had sex with you” he says, his voice dropping lower, “you wouldn’t need to ask.” His eyes remain on mine for another moment before dropping almost lazily to the duvet gathered around my waist. “You would know because you would feel me.”

Heat spreads all the way to my ears and I look away from him. There are important questions I should be asking him, sensible ones, beginning with what happened to Logan and Stacey, yet the only thing my exhausted brain seems capable of doing is repeating those four words.

You would feel me.

“Who changed my clothes?” I ask, running my tongue nervously over my lips.

He says nothing and my stomach twists. “Was it you?” I try again, barely above a whisper.

I wait for some kind of answer, or at least a reaction, but his face doesn’t give me anything.

“Where are my clothes?” I manage to ask after several uncomfortable seconds.

“They’re clean.”

“Is Logan here?” I ask. “Stacy, too?”

Something changes in his expression. His mouth hardens first, then the rest of his face follows, the amusement from a moment ago disappearing, like I have said something offensive without realizing it.

“Who the fuck is Logan?”

The force of the question startles me and I flinch again, my fingers tightening around the duvet as I stare at him.

“He’s one of my best friends,” I answer quickly. He didn’t acknowledge my response, and I should probably stop there, but the filter that normally exists between my thoughts and my mouth is broken, so I continue talking. “He helps me when I get like that.”

A faint line appears between his brows. “Like what?”

I hesitate. I don’t particularly want to tell him. Actually, I don’t want to tell him anything. I don’t know this man, not even his name. Everything I know about him consists largely of the fact that he chased me through the woods, brought me somewhere without asking, which should place him firmly at the bottom of the list of people entitled to know anything personal about me.

Still, I answer him.

“When I have panic attacks, Logan knows what to do.”