He runs his hand over Sosch’s back, and a small smile tugs at his lip. “That doesn’t make us even.”
“I’m factoring in the fact that you kidnapped me.”
The bastard actually laughs. “Come on. It hasn’t been that bad an experience, has it?”
He’s got to be kidding. “I just got shot at.”
“I took care of you.”
Something clenches in my stomach again. I stare at the road so I don’t have to see the way he’s looking at me. There’s no desire inside of me. None. Zilch. Zero. And I am not thinking about what sex with the fae and their edarratae would be like. Hell, I haven’t had sex with a human. I probably couldn’t handle it with—
I shake my head and grip the steering wheel. Why the hell did I invite him into this car? He’s my kidnapper . I should be trying to kill him, not help him, but even now, I’m concerned about his injuries. That shoulder wound doesn’t look good, and even though he’s trying to hide it, I can tell he’s hurting. He needs a doctor or, rather, a fae healer.
Damn it. Why the hell do I care?
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asks.
“I’m following the road,” I answer tersely.
“Can the humans follow this car?”
I check the rearview mirror. “There’s no one behind us.”
“No,” he says. “With tech. Can they track us using tech?”
Oh. I study the panel of gauges behind the wheel. How can you tell if a car’s rigged with OnStar or something?
“There’s a second gate to the north of the inn,” Aren says. “Sosch can help us find it.”
He must not know exactly where it is. Without Sosch, we could walk right past it.
Wait. We? What the hell am I thinking? I need to ditch this fae. I’m about to insist he fissure out again when he pushes Sosch into the backseat, then takes off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I swivel my eyes away from him and stare at the road, trying not to remember the way his body looked when his torso was covered in nothing but silver dust.
“Bleeding,” he responds. He tears the shirt down its center.
I give in to temptation and glance over when he tears the shirt again. He wraps the strips of cloth around his injured shoulder. His abs clench when he pulls the bandage tight. Damn.
I focus on driving. He’s not attractive. He can’t be, not when he’s covered in blood and bruises. And not all the blood is his, I remind myself. I don’t know how many humans he’s killed. That alone should make me want to get rid of him as soon as possible. The thing is, I’m comfortable with him sitting beside me. It’s insane, but he makes me feel almost as safe as Kyol always has.
I frown, thinking about that. Then suddenly, it all makes sense.
“Stockholm syndrome,” I whisper, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.
Aren looks at me. “What?”
The Stockholm syndrome. It explains everything. I’m identifying with my kidnapper, forming some type of sick, emotional bond with him. That’s why I saved him and why I’m concerned about his well-being now. It’s probably the reason I’m feeling drawn to him. My mind magnifies every little kindness he shows me, making me believe he cares for me when he really doesn’t.
“You okay?” Aren asks.
“No,” I snap. “I’m not. I’m psychologically impaired.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Fissure out.”
“McKenzie,” he says, sounding as if he’s disappointed in me.
“Now, damn it.” I swing my arm at him, hit his shoulder.
He grunts. “I can’t go anywhere while we’re moving.”
I slam on the brake, shove the gearshift into park, and then wait, but he doesn’t budge. He just sits there staring at me. “I’m not kidding, Aren. Fissure. Out.”
He sighs and I think he’s finally going to comply when he says, “I’m very sorry about this.”
“Sorry about wha—”
His hand darts out, grabs the keys, and pulls them from the ignition.
I lunge across the center console, reaching for them. I’m screwed if I don’t get them back, but Aren fends me off.
“I can’t let you go,” he says.
“Give me the fucking keys!” I make a second attempt to grab them. He holds them away and bats my hands down. I manage to catch his wrist, but my momentum and a small jerk from him causes me to half fall into his lap. A smile starts to appear on his lips, so I slam my fist into his injured shoulder.
“Nom Sidhe,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. When the keys fall to the floorboard, I reach between his legs to grab them. Before I straighten, he wraps an arm around my waist and then kicks open his door.
I throw an elbow toward his gut. He blocks it, pulls me across his lap, and nearly throws me out of the car. I drop the keys to grab the oh-shit handle above the door with both hands as Aren rises out of the car, keeping his arm around me.
“Let go of the handle.”
“Let go of me !” I yell back. He pulls harder, lifting my feet off the ground. The handle is my only anchor to the car, but my grip is weakening. I kick, but he’s holding both my legs now.
“McKenzie.” He gives a final jerk and my hands slip. My teeth slice through my bottom lip when I land face-first on the damp roadside.
Aren flips me over and pins me to the ground. I buck and twist and try to shimmy out from under him.
“Relax,” he orders.
My left arm slips free. He recaptures it.
“Enough, McKenzie. Enough!”
I let my body go limp beneath him and force myself not to react when edarratae scramble from his hands into my arms. I fail miserably in the no-reaction department. I don’t move, but chaos lusters pulse under my skin, and the longer he touches me, the hotter they become. They’re not painful; they’re stirring and addictive.
“I hate you,” I whisper. His silver eyes follow a luster as it tickles over my shoulder, up my neck, and across my cheek.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and then he gently presses his thumb to my bottom lip. I suck in a breath when he flares his magic to heal the small cut there, and it feels as if a thousand chaos lusters crash together in my stomach.
I fight back my frustration, turning my head to the side so I don’t have to look at him. “Will you let me up now?”
“Will you try to run?” When I don’t respond, he breathes out a warm sigh on my neck. “Stupid question. Of course you’ll try.”
Aren rises and pulls me to my feet. When he turns to open the car’s back door, I swoop down, grab the keys lying forgotten on the ground, and shove them into my pocket.
He searches the backseat a moment and then straightens. “This is a . . .”
I peek around his shoulder at the metal box in his hand. “It’s a first-aid kit.”
He nods, opens it up, and stares at its contents.
“You can’t heal yourself, can you?” I ask.
“No.” He sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. “Do you sew?”
I still, and a hint of nausea churns in my stomach. “No. I don’t.”
“My shoulder needs to be cleaned and closed.”
“No.” I look away, into the forest. He’s hurt, but I don’t think I can outrun him. Maybe he’ll grow weaker on the way to the gate? Then I can sprint back here and escape.
“McKenzie,” Aren says, a plea in his voice.
“I’m not sticking a needle into you,” I say, refocusing on him. Stitching a wound shut is a little too much for me. I can clean it, though. I look into the open kit on his lap. The vigilantes must have brought it with them. Everything is labeled in English. I spot a few butterfly bandages and pick them up. “I can use these to hold the wound together.”
“I’m bleeding too much for that.”
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