Carrie #2
I didn’t remember the trip from the lot to the Escalade.
My brain deleted every second of it, except the sound of my name in his mouth—Caroline—and the way his body folded into the passenger seat, every muscle rigid against pain.
His jaw was clenched, lips blue-white with the effort of not howling.
But his eyes were alive, green as poison, and they never left the rearview as I gunned it out of there.
I was crying and didn’t know it until the salty streaks stung the corners of my mouth.
The roads were empty, a rarity for Kentucky at noon, and the wet slap of the wipers kept time with my pulse.
I kept my foot heavy on the gas, weaving through the backroads and doubling every turn, always watching for the Lincoln.
Sometimes I saw it: a glint of black in the side mirror, a shadow slipping in and out of the treeline, never close enough to make out a license plate or a face.
Shivs kept his left hand clamped over the wound.
With the right, he cranked the seat all the way back and propped his feet on the dash, knees splayed wide.
It looked like a casual pose, but the way his breathing stuttered told the real story.
I risked a glance at him—just a flicker, not enough to lose the road—and saw the blood had soaked through his cut, through the white T-shirt beneath, all the way down to the waistband of his jeans.
The metallic stink filled the car, edged out only by the sharper tang of fear.
I took the curve at River Road fast, two wheels up on the shoulder, gravel hissing against the paint. “You still with me?” I said, but my voice sounded small, like someone else’s.
“Been through worse,” he grunted, which I chose to believe.
“You need a hospital—”
“Not for this.” He squeezed his shoulder, and blood bubbled between his fingers. “Get us home.”
“Home” meant Stillwater Mansion. I took the service entrance, punching in the code with a palm so sweaty it almost slipped on the buttons.
The gate opened slow as molasses, but I floored it anyway, chewing up the gravel drive in a spray of dust. The house loomed at the end, big and empty, the kind of fortress that should have felt safe. Instead, it looked like a tomb.
I parked as close to the front steps as I could, threw the Escalade into park, and ran around to the passenger side.
Shivs had already managed to push himself halfway out, one foot dragging along the ground.
I hooked my arms under his and hauled him upright.
He didn’t scream, not once, but his whole body vibrated with the effort.
Inside, every sense was on overload. The ticking of the hall clock, the squeak of old wood under our feet, the faint echo of the last time we’d been here, laughing and drinking and pretending nothing could touch us.
I hit the door lock with my elbow, then double-checked it, then checked it again.
The world outside was hunting us, and all I could think was: they won’t get him. Not today.
We staggered up the stairs together, me half-carrying, him half-limping, neither willing to admit how scared we were. I aimed us for the master bath, because it was the only room with light strong enough to do any real damage control.
The bathroom was marble, tile, and mirrors—Daddy’s idea of class, though right now it felt like a surgical theater.
I sat Shivs down on the closed toilet lid and fumbled through the vanity for the first aid kit.
By the time I turned around, he’d stripped off his cut and shirt, both now a sodden mess on the tile.
His upper body was a road map of violence: black tribal ink, white scar tissue, old burns, and a fresh, ugly wound above his left pec, an inch below the collarbone.
I knelt in front of him, hands trembling so bad I couldn’t even open the kit on the first try. The blood was everywhere—on my palms, under my nails, speckled up my arm, and even across my cheek. I dabbed at the wound with a towel, hating how little it seemed to help.
“It’s not an artery,” I muttered, trying to remember high school first aid. “But it’s deep.”
“Just needs to come out,” he said, voice tight. “Bullet’s in there. Won’t heal until it’s out.”
I stared at the hole in his shoulder. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Not unless you want to wait three days.”
He was right, in his own fucked-up way. I’d seen the wound close up on its own already, the skin knitting even as I wiped it down. But the flesh bulged around something hard, and I knew if I didn’t do it now, the bullet would stay there until he rotted.
I grabbed the tweezers and braced myself. “This will hurt.”
He grinned, and it was the wolf’s grin. “Do your worst, princess.”
I dug in, and the pain must have been cosmic, but he just bit down on a washcloth and watched me, eyes never leaving my face.
I fished around for what felt like forever, the tweezers slick with blood, until I felt the tip click against metal.
I pulled, slow and steady, and the slug came free in a hot, wet pop.
I dropped it in the sink, the clink of lead on porcelain deafening.
I started to clean the wound, dabbing away the blood, but my hands shook so badly that I smeared more than I mopped up.
Shivs just sat there, chest rising and falling, every muscle flexed.
The gash was already less angry, skin pink and shiny around the hole.
I tried to say something—anything—but the words got lost in my throat.
Instead, I pressed a clean towel to his skin and held it there, feeling his heat pulse through the cloth.
Our faces were close, so close I could smell the blood on his breath, the sweat in his hair, the cologne he must have used before the world went to shit.
His hand shot up and caught my wrist. I gasped, and he pulled me in, his lips crashing against mine, teeth grazing my mouth in a kiss that was more battle than seduction.
I kissed him back.
The towel fell to the floor. His hands were everywhere—my back, my neck, threading through my hair, yanking me closer even as his blood slicked our bodies. I felt his tongue in my mouth, tasted the iron, the hunger, the want. He shoved his jeans off and growled.
He tore at my blouse, the silk ripping between his fingers like tissue paper.
The buttons scattered across the floor, bouncing off tile and rolling under the tub.
My bra went next, the straps snapped in two moves.
I straddled him, one knee digging into the seat between his thighs, the other wedged against the tub for leverage.
He ran his hands down my sides, gripping my hips with a force that bruised.
My skirt was next, hiked up to my waist, panties shoved aside with the heel of his palm.
I felt the head of his cock against me—hot, hard, so thick I almost cried out.
I wanted it. I wanted all of him, inside me, marking me, filling me up until I couldn’t think.
I reached down, guided him in, and the stretch was perfect.
Every inch of him set my nerves on fire.
I rode him slow at first, savoring the fullness, the way he pressed up into me with every thrust. He leaned forward, mouth on my throat, licking the salt from my skin.
I clung to his shoulders, digging my nails into the wounded flesh, not caring if it bled.
He lifted me, just a little, and slammed me down onto him, his hands locked around my waist. The pain and pleasure blurred together, and all I could do was gasp his name, over and over, as I fucked him with everything I had.
The world outside faded away. There was no Lincoln, no distillery, no ghosts—just the heat of his body and the need to own each other, completely, for as long as we could.
He bent me back over the marble, cold tile against my thighs, and pounded into me from behind, his grip never faltering.
He reached around, pinched my nipple until I screamed, then covered my mouth with his hand and fucked me harder.
I came, once, twice, losing count as he drove me past every limit.
When he finished, he held me there, cock buried deep, both of us shaking. He bit my shoulder, just hard enough to leave another mark, then licked the spot, soothing it.
I turned around, straddled him again, and kissed him, soft this time. Our bodies were a mess—blood, sweat, and more, all of it mixing in the heat and air.
He leaned his forehead against mine. “You’re insane,” he said.
“Says the guy who got himself shot to save me.”
He laughed, breathless. “It was worth it.”
We stayed like that, tangled and ruined, for a long time. I traced the tattoos on his chest, the lines of ink and scar, the new hole that was already closing up.
He stroked my back, his hand gentle now. “You’re not what I expected,” he said.
“Neither are you. And that’s a fucking understatement.”
A silence fell, heavy and electric. The air still buzzed with sex and danger. Outside, the world was still hunting us, but for now, we had each other.
Finally, I stood, legs shaking, and started to clean up the mess. I ran the water, grabbed towels, and wiped down the blood from the tile. Shivs watched me, eyes soft, almost sad. “You don’t have to,” he said.
I looked at him, and for the first time, I let him see everything I was feeling—the fear, the fury, the fucking need to survive. “I want to.”
He nodded, and we finished the job together. The room smelled like iron and bourbon and sex. It was perfect.
We sat on the floor, backs to the tub, my head on his shoulder. The wound was barely a bruise now. I traced a finger along his collarbone, memorizing the shape of him.
“I’m not letting them take you,” I said.
He kissed the top of my head. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”