38. Anna
ANNA
I had already washed up in the utility sink at the warehouse, yet there’s still an invisible taint to my skin where Sebastian’s blood had splattered my forearms. I know nothing’s there, but it doesn’t stop me from washing and rewashing when I return to my apartment.
Darcy must still be at The Slaughterhouse’s afterparty, because I find the place empty. Good.
I also still have some fake blood splattered elsewhere, and I don’t know how I would be able to explain it to her.
Plus, the adrenaline has yet to peter away, leaving me visibly shaking.
But for the first time in forever, it’s not out of fear.
It’s an exhilaration that I can only imagine adrenaline junkies are familiar with.
It’s the high and the aftermath of surviving, knowing you faced something terrifying and made it out alive.
Because that’s what I’ve done. I survived.
I’ve officially rid myself of Sebastian, any last possible trace of him washing down the drain with the soap and water.
That invisible weight that’s been driving me into the ground these past eleven months is nowhere to be found, and it’s such a relief that my body doesn’t know what to do with it.
I release a breath, almost laughing, but it sounds as if a sob escapes me.
At least, that’s what it must sound like to Damon, because arms wrap around me from behind the instant the shower door opens.
Because I’m facing the water, he can’t see my expression, likely assuming I’m having some kind of breakdown.
That’s not surprising, given what I endured earlier.
For a few minutes there, trapped in the trunk of his car, I had my doubts.
If so much as one thing went wrong, I could have fallen back into Sebastian’s hands.
But Damon had it all figured out. He had my back, and my front, and my sides. He would always be there for me.
He must catch sight of my face, because I feel him relax as I rest my back against his chest. He sees that I’m smiling.
His lips press kisses to my cheek and neck, his grip around me tightening. It’s the perfect reassurance I need, steadying my trembling body better than any weighted blanket ever could. He lets up, however, when he looks my body over, not liking what he sees.
Damon didn’t want me to use myself as bait for Sebastian’s goons, knowing I would get hurt at least to some degree, but I knew it was the only way we could make this plan work. And it had.
But it also left me with some purplish stains beginning to form across my abdomen and hip.
“I don’t even feel it.” And it’s the truth. Maybe it looks worse than it is, or the adrenaline is offering some kind of numbing effect, but all I feel are his fingers running over my skin, not a twinge of pain between them.
Damon had a few things to take care of after he dropped me off at my apartment, and it seems in the hour that’s passed, he, too, had already taken a shower.
Any of the blood and dirt that had been on him is missing from the arms now wrapped around my middle, and when I look over my shoulder to see his face, I notice his hair is already damp despite not having stepped into the water.
Good. Because I don’t want soap or blood or time between us.
He’s determined to rid me of my trembling, knowing the adrenaline will wear me out thoroughly by morning, and I’m not about to argue with his methods.
Damon keeps one arm wrapped around my middle, securing me against his front, as the other hand goes to my folds.
Thank God his hold is so steady, because my legs threaten to buckle right out from under me.
He’s whispering something in my ear, but I can’t concentrate on anything but his fingers working my clit.
Damon must realize that, chuckling; the low rumble of his chest and the hot breath against the shell of my ear only adds to the adrenaline high…
Because it’s absolute male satisfaction.
He knows what he’s doing to me, and in my experience—that knowledge—it only drives him wilder, feral.
And I get it. Knowing I can reduce this man to a primal state does something to me, too.
My pussy begs for him to be inside of me, but he continues circling my clit with just his middle finger.
I need more, even as he increases the pressure.
I’m bucking against him, whimpering, desperate, even as the tension he’s built sends me over the edge.
I come, but it’s not enough. I’m empty, quite literally, and my pussy continues to ache at the loss.
“Did you need something?” he taunts, his erection pressing into me.
When I can’t do more than groan, he turns me around.
In one fell swoop, he grabs the back of my thighs and lifts me, pinning my back to the wall.
I couldn’t be more grateful that Darcy isn’t here, and I feel bad for my neighbors, because I can’t be quiet.
With the wall being so slick, I feel unsteady despite Damon’s grip on me, so each of his strokes starts off slow, allowing me to anchor myself.
He must sense the tension leaving me, because I don’t need to say anything.
As soon as I adjust, his pace is anything but measured.
Those strokes transform into thrusts that not only hit me deep, but the position also hits my clit.
He fucks me so hard, fighting past my pussy clenching around him that he takes me to another two orgasms before finally coming himself.
Just as he said, the adrenaline seems to have subsided in the wake of my sexual euphoria that I’ve all but melted into Damon. I feel like I’m made of gelatin when he sets me back on my feet, and he doesn’t need to be told to not let me go.
“What now?” I breathe.
His lips work along my throat, up my jaw, and eventually reach my mouth, all the while smiling. “I take you out on our first real, uninterrupted date.”
A good night’s rest hasn’t done me any favors.
If anything, it’s given my body the time for bruises to form and aches to settle in.
I want to remain under the covers, but my phone continues sounding off on the nightstand come eight a.m. Rolling over, I wince having to reach for it and immediately groan when I see the messages and missed calls.
So much for staying in this morning.
After what happened last night with Sebastian’s goons knocking out all of the Sunfire’s windows, it’s too damn cold to drive, and Damon doesn’t have his car, so I have to call for a service to pick me up.
Doing so even just yesterday would have terrified me so much that I wouldn’t have been able to get in the vehicle, but today really is a new day.
Dragging my sore and groggy self down to the police station, I don’t bother to look presentable.
I’m bare-faced, wearing sweatpants, my pajama tank top, and a zip-up AC/DC hoodie.
I didn’t even bother to brush my hair. What’s the point?
If I’m going to be stuck sitting through a five-hour “interview,” I may as well be comfortable.
I draw the hood of my sweater over my head and even begin to doze off after I’m left in an interrogation room.
“We really need to stop meeting like this,” I drawl, not bothering to open my eyes as the door finally opens sometime later. His aftershave assaults me, announcing his identity the second he enters the room.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Someone stole a candy bar from your desk, and you only ever have two suspects for anything now?” I guess, my tone completely and utterly flat. “Are you bringing Damon down to the station next, or is he already waiting in the hall to be interrogated?”
The detective’s footsteps falter as he rounds the table to take his place on the other side, no doubt catching sight of the bruise already forming below my left eye.
“No, I’d like to discuss something that happened last night. Is there anything you’d like to say before we get started?” Nash asks this so calmly that you’d think I was at a therapist’s office. Like I’m really going to buy into his “good cop” bullshit.
“I’d like you to call Damon for me so I have a ride when you’re done with your eight-hundredth interrogation.
” Every time I’ve been in here, I’m instructed that cell phone use is prohibited, so I have no other way of reaching out to him until after being released, and the last thing I want to do is hang around the police station longer than I need to.
I know Damon would be willing to just sit outside and wait for me, but that doesn’t seem fair, considering this will likely take hours.
Nash looks genuinely surprised. “Damon Knox?”
“No, Damon Wayans,” I deadpan. “Yes, Damon Knox.”
The detective sits across from me, a police report already lying on top of the folder in his hands.
“Several people called the station last night to report a young woman matching your description, wearing some kind of white and black costume makeup, was being dragged out of a silver two-door compact car by two assailants. By the time police were able to arrive on scene near the industrial district, all they found was an abandoned 2004 Pontiac Sunfire with both side windows smashed in and the license plates registered in your name. Care to share something with the class? Like, perhaps, where did you get that bruise from?”
When I don’t answer, that same muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Miss Evans, we need to know what happened. Was it you or not? Because if you lent your car to a friend or coworker and she’s in danger, we need to know.”
“It was me,” I concede.
“What happened?”
“I got away.”
Again, I offer nothing more, and I swear that the detective’s coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, because he’s doing nothing to mask his frustration.
“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”
I laugh, the sound hollow. “Yes, because much good that’s done me before. My apologies, but I didn’t feel like spending another month locked in a psychiatric facility for being the victim of an attack.”
“That wasn’t under our jurisdiction—”
“No, you’re just the assholes who granted my abuser a restraining order against me. Sorry, Detective, but the boys in blue haven’t done much here, other than harass me.” I spread my arms out to indicate the room I’m currently in, earning me a frown.
“Are you familiar with the kind of car Damon drives? Because witnesses also described one of your assailants’ vehicles as an old red clunker covered in rust, sounding an awful lot like his Fiero.”
Fucking hell. Even now, Sebastian’s bullshit is causing me problems.
“If you’re trying to not so subtly hint that Damon was behind it, I’ll kindly tell you to fuck off,” I snarl. “He’s the only reason I’m sitting here right now.”
“Want to elaborate?”
“No.”
He blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Did you at least receive medical care?”
“You know damn well I’ve been hurt far worse. I can handle a few bumps and bruises.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was compassion in his expression. “How extensive are your injuries?”
I lift the hem of my shirt up to my ribs, showcasing the purple splotches staining mostly my sides and hip. It’s the two separate burn marks on my skin, however, that capture his attention. They almost look like small snake bites, but someone in his profession knows damn well what made them.
A cold, almost brittle laugh escapes me.
“Funny how that works. Only once I become a liability to Lillian Blackwood, my abusive ex just so happens to show up in town after I went through all the trouble of going into hiding, and he just so happens to be working now with that very same woman I’m in the process of suing.
Oh, and I just so happen to get attacked.
Again. Coincidences around here are as common as stop signs, it would seem. ”
Someone knocks on the door, forcing Nash to excuse himself. When he returns a few minutes later, he reenters the room almost in slow motion, obviously trying to digest whatever he’s been told. “Are you aware that Mr. Chadwick is in the hospital?”
“Nope.” I roll the word out, not looking remotely surprised. “Why? Did Bash stub his toe?”
“He, too, was attacked last night. Among numerous injuries, his hands have been so badly broken that they look like they’ve been run over by a truck. And he’s missing two of his fingers.”
“And let me guess who he’s blaming.”
Here it is. The moment of truth.
“Actually,” Nash says, his tone shifting. Even though my shirt is pulled back in place, the detective looks down at my abdomen again, as if he can see the burn marks through the material. “He’s refusing to say anything about it.”
“It’s always a pity to see bad things happen to good people.” The obfuscation of my remark doesn’t go over Nash’s head, earning me…an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“If the hospital suspects a patient is the victim of a crime, it’s protocol for them to call us. Mr. Chadwick might not be saying anything about what happened last night, but he’s been quite the Chatty Cathy, about you.”
“Oh?”
Nash lowers himself back into his seat, honestly looking bowled over. “He’s confessed to orchestrating the assault on you from last November, and he’s already provided the police with proof.”
“You don’t say?”
It seems like that temporary restraining order is about to be put through the paper shredder.