Page 7 of Red

I shuddered yet again. This time, the mug didn’t splash. The warmth was finally bleeding into my fingers, waking them up. “I thought… maybe it was a metaphor for… I thought…”

“Rape?” Jack said bluntly.

I swallowed another gulp of tea. I’d seen looks like that in men’s eyes before but never up close; never while they were on top of me. At the first hint of impending violence from anyone, regardless of gender presentation, my body always lit up like live wire—my instincts were well honed. Too well honed, if my therapist and prescribing psychiatrist were correct.

And yet, I’d walked out of town with Wulfric. I should’ve seen. Should’ve known.

Jack narrowed his eyes, nose wrinkling. “Don’t think so. He just manages to make everything sound like that. Part of the game, probably.”

“It’s not a fucking game.” A little of the warmth from the tea was hitting my bloodstream now, and I started to feel things again. “It’s sick. He should be in prison.”

“There’s no prison that could hold him.” He glanced down and his eyebrows went up as if in surprise, as if he’d forgotten he was twisting up an article of clothing. “Er, here. Some long johns. They’ll be too big, but they’re warm and dry. I have some spare sweaters too. Just need to go through some things in the back.”

His accent was different, softer and less obvious, but he said his th sounds like ts. Irish, maybe?

He left the long johns near me, like a little offering, then stood and backed away again. “Should change them out for your, uh. Those little… under… things.”

I finished the tea, then scooted out of my very damp shorts. The good news was it was just the ass that was damp, so most likely from the muddy ground. I kicked them out from under the blanket, shifting around until I found a position that didn’t make my rib cage feel like it was collapsing. I couldn’t stop shivering even as I pulled on the long johns. They were wool, and I expected them to feel scratchy, but instead they were soft and warm against my skin.

I laid my head on the floor and focused on the flames in the stone hearth, willing them deep into myself. And thinking about his words: There’s no prison that could hold him.

Where in the actual fuck was I?

Was this even real? Or was this some kind of exhaustion-induced psychotic episode, a side-effect of having to relive my mother’s murder in nightmares over and over and over every single fucking night this week?

I must’ve dozed off because when I shivered myself awake again, the room was darker, shadows longer. Something smelled amazing, like Thanksgiving dinner, all herbaceous and savory. My stomach flip-flopped, and I sat up so quickly, my head swam.

“Warmer now?” Jack asked from somewhere in the gloom.

I darted my gaze around and spotted him behind one of the little couches. My skin did feel warmer, but there was still something cold deep, deep inside me. Like it really had settled into my bones. And god, my ribs. Ow. “Feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Jack raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the light of the hearth. “I thought I’d move this sofa a little closer for you. You’d be more comfortable, and I don’t think it’ll catch.”

“At this point, burning to death in a couch fire wouldn’t even be weird.” I sighed and scooched across the floor painfully, clutching the heavy bear fur.

Jack pushed the couch forward, then turned it to face the fire. Considered the position. Frowned and pulled it back a little. Then pushed it forward a few inches. And back again.

I very nearly smiled. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Jack gestured to something thrown over the back of the couch. “Warm sweater.”

I nodded and pulled myself up by the arm of the couch, letting the bear fur fall into a pile at my feet. I shivered at the touch of the cold air on my back, though the fire felt delicious on my front. Without ceremony, I pulled on the too-large woolen sweater. It was made of the same chunky yarn as his. “Thank you,” I murmured belatedly. “I should’ve said that. Before.”

“You did.” Jack gestured to the couch again.

I felt a little woozy, so he didn’t need to ask twice. I sat and pulled my legs up lotus-style, sticking my cold feet into the crooks of my knees. The long johns were surprisingly comfy, even if I had to keep hiking them up.

Jack followed, then scooped up the furry blanket and held it out to me. “Several times. I think you were delirious when I found you.”

“Where did you find me, exactly?” That seemed like a decent place to start.

“Out there in the forest.” He stepped back and watched me tuck myself in, eyes flashing in the firelight so they looked almost orange. “With Wulfric on top of you. Spotted your red scarf in the underbrush, moving too erratically to be an animal. Then I saw him and realized he was up to his old tricks.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to her the answer, but I asked, “What happened?”

“Cracked him on the back of the head with the flat of my axe. He fell right on top of you—was worried he’d smother you.”

I swallowed hard and shivered under the blanket. My instinct was to curl into a tighter ball, but my ribs wouldn’t let me. I tried to remember what Jack had said before, when I first woke up. “Does he do this… a lot?”