Not when the danger doesn’t stop at the four walls and the pointed roof. Not when the danger stares me in the face with an open and neutral expression, waiting for me to say something.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“I want to believe you.” Shit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grayson shrugs, his face glistening in the firelight, gleaming with sweat. “You’re right. You might want to believe me, but you can’t. It’s smarter not to trust anyone or anything right now.”
The image returns to me, two stranded souls forced together, at the whims of a world designed to devour us.
I hunch into myself. “I’ll take my chances.”
The same way I always have.
Chapter
Seven
Panic fractures my sleep with a single hit, the pieces falling away as I bolt upright. My eyes stick together and my cheeks burn with the indentation of couch fabric.
“No.” I blink sleep away and sniff, scrubbing tingling hands across my face. “Shit, shit!”
Grayson isn’t here.
His fire is banked, steadily burning, embers eating away at the logs he stacked before disappearing. The lamps are off and a blanket is tacked over the broken window.
How could I have fallen asleep?
A terrible new taste coats my tongue. Thin rays of watery light cut through the panes of the remaining window to mark the time.
I lurch to my feet and wrap the blanket around my shoulders tight. He couldn’t have gotten far. Did he actually take off and leave me here, alone?
The thought is an electric prod to my heart.
My cast iron pan lays forgotten on the floor. I’m too anxious to grab it. “Grayson?”
His whispered name echoes back to me. The kitchen is empty but the bedroom door is shut.
I grab the knob, twisting, and stop dead in my tracks.
Grayson tied himself to the bed.
Ropes keep his ankles spread, attached to the footboard. Two more keep his arms above his head.
How he managed to get the knots to tighten without help, I’ll never know. It takes way too long to make sense of the picture and by the time he blinks his eyes open. my breathing is ragged.
“What did you do?” I rush to help him and he grumbles low in his throat in warning.
“I didn’t want to hurt you again.” Sleep roughens his voice. “This was the only way for me to make sure.”
“You really are a damn Boy Scout.”
His muscles flex when he pulls against the knots.
“Where did you find the ropes? And how did you make the knots?”
Keeping myself upright is a challenge, not because I’m exhausted and every heartbeat feels like it’s pounding out of spite.
Because Grayson moves, his fingers curling, and his sleep darkened eyes narrow on me.