34. Bindi
THIRTY-FOUR
BINDI
“I’m telling you, the pasture would’ve cut off a half mile easily,” I grumble, swiping blood from my brow. The sweat’s already caking dirt into the gash. Perfect . . .
He doesn’t look back. “I’m not dragging your ass through a barbed wire fence so you can get gangrene in the other leg.”
“You wouldn’t be dragging me; I’d go first. You could admire the view.”
“I’ve seen it, baby, from every angle. I’m good.”
I roll my eyes. My shirt’s half-shredded, clinging to the dried sweat down my spine. We’ve been walking for what feels like hours, but it’s probably been twenty minutes—long enough for the crash of adrenaline to wear off and be replaced by pain.
Cassidy finally slows, bracing a hand on his thigh as he scans the fading treeline. “We’ve gotta find shelter. Soon.”
“Oh, now you’re on board with my brilliant shortcut ideas?”
Cassidy doesn’t answer, he just jerks his chin toward the horizon .
A light.
Faint and yellow, barely flickering through the dusk haze. A porch light, maybe.
I squint, swallowing past the dry lump in my throat. “House?”
“Maybe. Or a murder shack.”
“God, I hope it’s a murder shack.”
“Come on. Try not to look like we just fled a crime scene.”
“We did flee a crime scene.”
“That’s why I said to fucking act, Binx . . .”
The porch light glows brighter as we crest the hill. A large white farmhouse appears, half-tucked behind a row of scraggly trees, one front window glowing gold. There’s a handful of trucks parked, some newer, some clearly work trucks.
I glance sideways at Cassidy. We’re both thinking the same thing: this could be really fucking bad. But we’re out of options—no car, no phone, no food. Cassidy adjusts the duffel on his shoulder, then reaches for my hand.
“Let me talk,” I say, moving in front of him.
“Fine. But if you fuck it up, I’m pulling the crazy card.”
“That’s your only card.”
I knock—twice, hard. For a second, it’s just silence, then there’s the thud of footsteps behind the door followed by a chain sliding back.
The wood creaks as the door gives way to a man who is all jaw and flannel—gruff.
He has gray hair, calloused hands, and a look that says he doesn’t trust strangers, but doesn’t shoot them on sight either.
Behind him, two other figures hover—a tall man in his twenties with the same square build, and a woman with wild red hair knotted into a bun. She’s barefoot, freckles across her nose, and sleeves pushed up as if she’d been cleaning something.
“Hi! Sorry to bother you folks. We crashed our car about a mile back—phones dead. We just need a place to clean up. Maybe use a phone or something?”
There’s a long pause before the older man’s eyes flick to me, then back to Cassidy. I can feel him sizing us up—the duffel, the blood.
“What kind of car?” the younger guy asks.
Cassidy butts in. “A truck. Took a ditch turn too fast. Lost traction.”
The woman’s brow furrows in concern. “Were you hurt?”
Cassidy hesitates, then pulls up his sleeve just slightly revealing the raw scrape on his forearm. “Just banged up.”
“I’m Bindi. He’s Cass. We’re not looking for trouble, just a place to rinse off and maybe charge a phone.”
She softens—I see it happen. Something in her face shifts when she looks at me—some flicker of recognition, or empathy. She looks at me for a long beat, then at Cassidy, then back at the older man.
“Ben, they look wrecked,” she says gently.
Ben makes a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Lots of folks ‘look wrecked,’ Tierney. Doesn’t mean we invite ‘em in for a sleepover.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replies. Her tone sharpens just enough to draw a twitch from the other man. “But I’m saying, if they wanted trouble, they wouldn’t have knocked on our door.”
Cassidy speaks then. “We’re not here to hurt anyone.”
“You sure?” the other man mutters, his eyes still pinned to the black duffel Cassidy’s carrying.
I cut in. “We’ve been walking for miles and I’m bleeding through my bandage. We’re not a threat, we’re just fucking tired.”
Tierney’s eyes flick to Ben again and something silent passes between them. Her head tips toward a small building about twenty yards from the main house.
Ben sighs. “The guesthouse. Put ‘em in the fucking guest house. I’m going back in for another beer.” He disappears back into the house leaving us with the two younger ones.
“It’s just one room, but it has a decent bed, and a working shower. The AC unit is loud but runs if you let it sit first. You can rest there tonight. Tomorrow, you’re gone,” Tierney says.
“We understand,” I say.
She smiles, then turns at the other man. “Elias, get the keys from the hook.”
Elias turns and disappears back into the house.
Cassidy steps beside me, nodding once. “Thank you.”
Elias doesn’t look thrilled, but he nods along. “We’ll walk you over. If you try anything stupid, just know we’re all armed.”
“We’re not stupid.”
“You sure about that?” Ben mutters through the screen door.
The guesthouse is smaller than it looks from the outside.
One room, a bed shoved against the far wall, old paint curling from the edges of the windowsill.
There’s a kitchenette in the corner and a narrow bathroom in the back.
But it’s clean, quiet. And after the last twenty-four hours, it feels like a palace.
Cassidy doesn’t say a word as he drops the duffel and disappears into the bathroom. The door creaks closed and a second later, I hear the faucet sputter into life.
I strip off my shirt and glance down—my thigh’s soaked again. The bandage is pink, then red. Fuck. The cut’s bleeding worse than before. The bathroom door swings back open and Cassidy steps out, shirtless, his hair damp and dripping onto his shoulders. He looks up and freezes.
“Jesus, Bindi,” he breathes, crossing the room in two strides. “You’re bleeding. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s fine,” I snap, pulling the bandage off to inspect it. “I’ll fix it. ”
“Like hell you will. Sit down.”
“I said it’s fine.” I yank a towel off the side of the bed and press it to the wound, hissing at the sting. “I’ve bled worse from shaving.”
Cassidy stares at me like he wants to shake me, but I ignore him and limp into the bathroom, needing space more than anything. The light flickers when I switch it on. I scrub my hands, splash water on my face, then dig through the med kit I found underneath the sink.
Behind me, I hear Cassidy pacing.
By the time I step back into the room, he’s perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced behind his head.
“We need money. Like now.”
“Call that one runner, or your club in Knoxville. Someone. We need a damn favor.”
He doesn’t answer.
My stomach knots. “Cass. Call someone.”
His jaw ticks. “I don’t have a cell phone. I threw that shit out on the bus headed to Miami.
I move toward the duffel, my mouth already forming a curse. “Unbelievable. Just use my phone?—”
My fingers close around my phone, tucked in the side pocket.
Before I can even pull it out, Cassidy sees it. He storms forward, ripping it from my hands, and hurls it against the wall.
Plastic and glass explode against the floor.
“What. The. Fuck.”
He’s breathing hard. “Even if it’s off, they can ping it. That’s probably how Anthony’s been following us this entire time.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me and just break my phone!”
“I do when your decisions get you killed! ”
“You’re so obsessed with control, you don’t even see it. You make every decision for us. You hide shit. You get to decide what’s a threat and what’s not. You act like I’m just supposed to follow and nod and trust you because, what . . . because you love me?”
“I do love you.”
“You love me? Then why does it always feel like I’m suffocating?” I get in his face—nose to nose. “You don’t love me, Cassidy, you fucking need me. That’s different. You’re no better than Anthony, treating me like I’m some sort of thing to own instead of a fucking person, a partner.”
“Don’t you fucking say that. Don’t ever compare me to that piece of shit.”
“I didn’t. You made it clear to me that you’re just as evil as him.”
I don’t know which one of us is breathing harder. Me, because I just called him the one name he can’t stand, or him, because he’s trying not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall.
That vein in his neck is pulsing, and I hate him. I hate him so much. In this second, that hate tastes like blood. He steps forward. “Say it again. Tell me I’m like him one more time.”
“You think control is love. You think you know what’s best for me. But you’re just as sick, possessive?—”
He grabs me.
He fists the front of my shirt, shoving me back until my spine hits the wall with a thud that rattles the old house frame. My breath leaves in a rush and my wrists slam against the plaster as he pins them beside my head.
“You think he’d stop here? Think he wouldn’t knock you around a little first?” he growls right in my face.
“And you’re doing so much better, huh?” I spit.
“I’d die before I laid a hand on you to hurt you.”
“Then what the fuck is this?”
“This is me trying not to lose you. ”
He presses closer and my legs part against instinct, needing to stay balanced against the pressure of him. His thigh slots between mine, his breath hot on my neck.
“I hate you . . .” I mumble under my breath.
I don’t tell him to stop.
I don’t even fucking blink.
I want to claw his face off and kiss him just so I can taste his blood.
“You fucking hate me?” he whispers, eyes locked on my mouth.
“I do. So fucking much.”
“Say you hate me one more time.”
“I hate you.”
“Perfect. Let’s see how good hate looks on you with your legs spread.”
He crashes into me.
There’s no sweetness, no pretense. His lips devour mine like he’s trying to shut me up permanently. His hand fists in my hair, yanks my head back, and his mouth drags down my throat. I gasp, throat bobbing, and that’s when his hand slides down, under my panties, no warning.
“You’re soaked. You fight me with that mouth, and your cunt still begs for me.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m trying.”
His fingers curl inside me as I arch off the wall, one leg wrapping around his thigh without meaning to. I hate how easily he breaks me. I hate how much I love being broken.
He works me open with two fingers, then three—rough. I grind down on his palm, while trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing me moan.
“You want me to stop?” he snarls against my neck.
“I want you to shut the fuck up and fuck me.”
That’s all it takes.
He yanks me off the wall, spins me, and slams me face- first against the kitchen counter. My palms slam the counter, and I don’t look back as I hear him shove his jeans down.
But I feel the pressure and burn as his cock rams into me, causing me to choke on a gasp as my hands claw at the edge of the counter. He’s too thick for how fast he fucks into me, but my body takes him anyway.
He snarls and grabs my throat from behind just enough to tilt my head back so I can see his reflection in a mirror by the door. His face is wrecked, his eyes black holes, and he fucks me like he’s trying to drive the guilt out of his spine.
“This pussy doesn’t hate me. This pretty pussy loves me, misses me, soaks for me,” he says, slapping my ass.
I whimper and he slams in deeper. My thighs shake from my feet being on their tiptoes.
He pulls out just to flip me back around and lifts me onto the counter. His cock is slick and gleaming, pressed to my cunt again.
He pushes in, slow. This time, he watches me break around him.
“You look so fucking good when you’re freshly fucked,” he mutters, thumb brushing my cheek like it’s a mercy.
He keeps me pinned with one hand at my throat and the other buried in my hair, yanking back so I have no choice but to look at him as he fucks me hard. My orgasm hits, my vision whites out, and my throat rips open with a cry that doesn’t sound like mine.
I grab him by the jaw, digging my nails in until he growls, and I break the kiss with a bite to his bottom lip. “Slap me.”
His brows draw down hard. “What?” he asks, moving his hand away from my throat.
“You heard me. I want you to hit me for telling you I hate you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Oh, I do.” I grab his wrist and shove his hand to my throat again. His palm wraps instinctively around it, like muscle memory. “I want to feel it. I want to feel you. I want to know that this isn’t just some dream.”
Cassidy’s grip tightens and my pulse thuds against his palm.
“Slap me. Make me feel it.”
The crack of his hand across my cheek is . . . perfect . My head snaps to the side, a sting blooming across my skin, and I gasp. Not from pain. From how goddamn alive I feel.
Cass is breathing like he’s about to lose it. “Jesus Christ, Bindi . . .”
I turn my face back toward him slowly, dragging my tongue across my lower lip. “Again.”
He doesn’t wait. The second slap lands harder, and this time I moan—full-bodied. Drunk on the pain.
“You’re fucking insane,” he growls, yanking me by the hair and making my back arch in an unnatural angle as he pounds his cock into me. “You like this shit? Huh? You like being treated like a whore?”
“Only when it’s you.”
“That’s it. You’re my whore. You’re mine. Admit it. Say it so fucking loud, the devil hears it.” He slams in deep, so deep I swear he’s going to split me in half. My hips rock forward, desperate and chaotic.
“I love you,” I whisper, but my voice slowly rises. “I hate you. I love you. I hate you.”
“I know,” he growls. “Me too, Firefly.”
When he comes, it’s with a broken moan. He doesn’t pull out, just unloads inside of me as he collapses, forehead to mine, his chest heaving. His breath is hot and damp and uneven, catching on my lips as I try to steady mine.
He stays inside me, like pulling out would break whatever this is. Like it would unmake us.
I don’t move either—I can’t. I’m limp under him, wrecked and twitching, my legs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips. My heart’s still clawing its way out of my ribs, and I know— I know —this is fucked. The way I crave him. The way I let him take me. The way I wanted it.
“I meant it,” he breathes into my mouth. “All of it.”
I swallow hard. I don’t ask which part.
Because that’s the thing about Cassidy Reyes . . . he might be the end of me, but he’s the only ending that ever made sense.