7. Seven
She fucking shot me.
My heart stops in my chest. Am I hurt? I only have half a second to scan my body, search for any life threatening injuries. I felt the sleeve of my flannel tug, but I don’t feel any pain. She didn’t hit anything major if she got me at all. Thank fuck her aim is worse than Tucker’s.
When my eyes swing back to her, I see that the kickback knocked the gun clean out of her hands. She’s not moving for it, though, her focus is locked entirely on me.
“Oh, honey, none of that.” Her eyes widen to saucers as I stalk towards her, my head cocked to the side. She’s utterly frozen, a deer in the headlights on the floor in front of me. I crouch down just close enough to make out the faint pink lines on her arms, her legs. Those brutal gashes are gone, now it’s all fresh delicate skin. I reach out to touch the ridges of that new skin, marveling at her recovery, but before I can touch even the tips of my fingers to her, she lashes out.
She’s a flurry of movement beneath me, and she’s a hell of a lot stronger than her soft body would lead someone to believe. Her fist connects with my face and I wince as I struggle to restrain her. As soon as I get a good grip on her arms, it’s all over. The girl is all curves, and it’s hard to keep myself in check while I’m pinning her to the floor.
So much of me is pressed against so much of her, and the soft white T-shirt she’s draped in leaves absolutely everything to the imagination as she struggles beneath me.
What I would give to feel her writhing under me like this on her own terms.
Both of her wrists fit so nicely in one of my hands. I hold them over her head while I straddle her legs, locking her wriggling body in place.
Shit.
I’ve gotten ahead of myself and definitely did more damage than good right now.
She’s clearly terrified. She just woke up in a strange place with a strange man pinning her to the ground, and before I can think of anything to fix my mistake, she screams. The sound is shrill and hoarse, and it just keeps going.
“Hey, hey, hey! It’s okay!” I shout at her. My grip is still tight on her wrists but she’s thrashing hard enough that I think she might hurt herself. “Madeline! I’m not going to hurt you!”
I do the only thing I can think of to reassure her and grab the gun with my free hand, flick on the safety and slide it across the room, well out of my reach.
She doesn’t calm, and her wide eyes land on the knife strapped to my leg as her struggling becomes more manic.
“That too; it’s gone.” I slowly remove the strap holding the whole harness in place and slide it across the room too.
I’m looking at her with every ounce of charm I’ve got, trying to somehow relay to her that she’s safe here with me. As safe as she wants to be, anyways.
I can feel her start to relax beneath me, her breathing starting to calm, when someone slams into the mostly open door. It bangs against the wall, and it rattles hard enough that I’m momentarily worried it might actually come off its hinges.
The fear lingering in her eyes is replaced with rage as she looks over my shoulder. When she tenses again beneath me I brace for another round of struggling, but what I don’t see coming is her spitting directly in my face.