“And you think that’s the guy who fucked you up?”

He nods, absentmindedly cradling his injured hand. “It’s him.”

“What do you want her to do?”

He doesn’t respond. Just pulls the laptop closer and begins typing. Jamie watches as screens change, the process slower than she’s seen in the past, due to his injury. Their view into the apartment minimized, different sites popping up in its place. “Text her,” he says.

She picks up his phone, pulls up his texts, her cheeks coloring slightly as she scrolls down, their prior text streams primarily focused on one thing. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell her I can get back the money.”

She types, her thumbs flying over the metal nubs. “Can you?”

“I don’t know. It’s not an easy process to find out. It would normally take me twenty minutes or so. With my hand…” He shrugs, his eyes on the screen. “It’ll probably take an hour or two. But I don’t want to stand here and watch her scrape off his skin. The news might cause her to step down.” He glances up, his blue eyes meeting hers. “Did you send the text?”

She finishes typing. “Yeah.”

“Then you should probably go. I’m good here. Thanks for breaking my window.” His mouth releases a grin, one that tugs at her.

“Leave now? With your psycho girlfriend about to do who knows what?” She hoists herself onto the bed, leaning her body against him and earning an irritated look for her efforts.

“Go. No need for you to become an accomplice.” He shuts the laptop. Fixes her with a look that is heart-tuggingly sexy in its firmness. Sexy and obtuse. A look you don’t argue with.

She stands, a twinge of jealousy moving through her. Realizing, as she stares into his eyes, that he, by kicking her out, by closing the laptop, is protecting Deanna more than her.

She shrugs, tries to mask her hurt with a smile. “Need me to do anything before I go?”

He watches her eyes, silent for a moment before leaning forward, reaching out with his good hand and pulling on her hand, pulling her over to him and resting his head on her chest. “I’ll be fine.” He sighs, keeping her close. “I’m just so… stressed.”

She knocks him on the top of his head, the motion causing a wince to come from him.

“What? I am!”

“I am not sucking your dick right now.”

He scowls in a way that is ridiculously endearing. “I wasn’t even thinking of that.”

She grins, leans down, presses a kiss on his head, feels his arm wrap around her. “Yeah you were.”

“Maybe I was. Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He pulls away, looks up. “Thanks, babe. Seriously.”

Her smile fades, and she perches on the edge of the bed. “This is fucked up, you know that, right? You almost died. I almost lost you.” Her voice trembles, his hand reaching out and squeezing her hand.

“I know. I’m sorry you had to deal with it.”

She laughs, the reaction a half sob in its composition. “Don’t apologize, Mike! Just don’t…” She sniffs, picking at the edge of her sleeve and wiping at mascara. “Don’t get involved in her shit. She’s psychotic. You see that, right? And she almost killed you! So… please stay away from this. Or call the cops and let them handle it.”

He nods. Meets her eyes in a way that tells her nothing. “You’re the best, you know that?”

She smiles. “Yeah. I know.” She waits, her eyes catching the pulse of his fingers against the covers. “Well.” She says finally, “I’ll call you in the morning and check in. I can come by, change your bandages.”

He nods again and she can see the impatience in his eyes, mixed with gratitude but present all the same. And she hates that it makes her mad. That she feels left out of a fucked-up illegal situation that she shouldn’t want to be included in. Hates that he is friends with the dark presence that put him in such danger. Hates that the dark bitch is so freaking gorgeous.

CHAPTER 96

I CONTINUE TO sit and stare. Think. I’ve worked myself into a bit of a corner. This man came to rape me, do whoknowswhatelse with fourteen condoms. Kill me? I’m thinking yes. He’d had enough darkness in his soul that he tortured Mike and drove fifteen hundred miles to my door. I have, no doubt, fueled that anger. Now that his hysteria, the brain fuck that the gas took his head through, has passed, he is furious. I have watched his swollen eyes. Watched as they gained some ability back, enough to look at me with a look that clearly communicates hate. Taking off his finger was the big fucking pile of straw that broke that already-puny camel’s back. So now I have an asshole in my apartment with every intent to kill me should he regain the ability. That’s grounds for murder, right? My conscience rolls over uneasily. It’s debatable. I can’t exactly call the cops. And I can’t exactly let him go. Cut his zip ties and unhandcuff him, wave a cheery good-bye as he walks off, one finger lighter. And I’m keeping the damn finger. I’ll send it to Mike as a response to his next invoice. I smile, excited at the prospect. It’s witty, I’ll give myself that.