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Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances

Page 89

by Nicole Morgan


  Paisley shook her head.

  “Can we at least continue this debate back at my cabin? I see blood on your face and your clothes. You’re hurt, and we need to get out of this storm so I can see just how badly. I can't believe you were still on your feet when I found you.”

  He sounded a little proud of her.

  The thought was strangely comforting. Was she developing Stockholm Syndrome already? Was that even possible?

  “Can I take you back to my place and check you out?” he asked.

  Phrasing it as a question had her wavering.

  If he wanted to kill her, he could have done it already. He had a gun; he could have shot her while she was still stuck in her car. And really, he didn't even need a weapon. He was bigger and stronger than her and could probably snap her neck with his bare hands.

  It was like he wanted her to trust him.

  But because he really was a cop or because he was still trying to play her, gain her trust then use it against her, she couldn’t know.

  Trust him or not?

  Go with him? Yes or no?

  The answer to that question could be the difference between life and death.

  Although, if she stayed out here, she would probably be dead by morning anyway. Paisley didn't think she could survive a night out here in the snow and wind and freezing cold.

  Maybe if she went with him, she stood a chance. If he really was a cop, then he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Or maybe if she stayed out here, she would find help just around the next corner.

  Yes or no?

  Yes or no?

  Paisley was still debating when her decision was apparently made for her, and she was plucked up off the ground.

  Chapter Seven

  “Put me down,” Paisley shrieked, hammering on the man’s chest and shoving at him to try to get away. “Let me go. Help,” she yelled at the top of her lungs, but the wind stole her words, and they were lost in the swirling storm.

  No one was going to hear her.

  He had her.

  She was his.

  He could do to her whatever he wanted; she couldn’t stop him. It was taking all of her energy just to keep her eyes open and her mind awake.

  “Stop fighting me. You’ll only hurt yourself worse.”

  The only effect the threat had on her was to make her fight harder. She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing and let him have her. If he was going to do horrendous things to her and then kill her, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

  If he really was a cop, and the badge was real, then why hadn’t he called for help? Why was he taking her against her will to his house?

  “Relax,” he said again. His mouth was near her ear, and she felt a warm puff of breath that reminded her of how cold she was. “I’m only carrying you because you're hurt.” His voice rumbled through his chest; he had a nice voice, she thought a little drowsily.

  No.

  Paisley roused herself.

  She had to keep her wits about her.

  She couldn’t let her mind turn to mush and allow him to manipulate her.

  “Put me down,” she said firmly.

  She could feel an argument bubbling up inside him, but he seemed to think better of expressing it out loud, and a moment later, she was deposited on her feet.

  Unfortunately, her head, her stomach, and her body all protested, and she wobbled wildly. Her hands sought something to steady herself but found nothing. She staggered and probably would have crumpled if she hadn’t instead landed against the man.

  He was strong and tall and sturdy, and right now, that was all she needed.

  As much as she hated it, Paisley sunk down against him, resting her forehead on that rock-hard chest and let him hold her up.

  He did.

  An arm like a tree trunk slid around her waist, and she was pulled closer, his other hand came up and cradled her head.

  Cradled it.

  That didn't seem like the actions of a deranged killer who cut off people’s heads. Maybe he really was a cop.

  “I need to get you inside, see how badly you're hurt,” he reminded her gently, all traces of irritation and control gone from his tone.

  He was right, she knew that, but right now she didn't want to move. Her head pounded, and her stomach swirled more than the wind. The pain was getting worse, and she wanted to ask him if he had painkillers at his place but couldn’t seem to summon enough energy to speak. She wanted to take a moment to just stand here listening to his heart beat beneath her ear and simply rest.

  “Come on, you're shaking.”

  Was she?

  She wasn't sure of anything right now.

  Paisley was starting to feel worryingly floaty. Like she wasn't really inside her body anymore, but hovering above it. She still felt it, but she didn't seem to have any control over it. The two had become disconnected.

  She was going to go with him to his cabin. That much was a foregone conclusion. Cop or killer, she wasn't strong enough to do anything but get in out of the cold and the wind and take something for the pain. All that was in question was how she was getting there. She could let him carry her or she could get there on her own two feet and show him that, whatever his intentions, she was no pushover.

  His muscles bunched, and she could feel him get ready to take her weight and pick her up, but she stopped him. “I can walk.”

  “You can't,” he countered immediately.

  “I can,” she said resolutely. And to prove her point, she deliberately lifted her hands to his chest and eased herself off it until she was standing. She rocked a little, but she did it. She remained upright. “Which way?”

  Although she couldn’t see him, Paisley got the opinion he was cocking an eyebrow at her and biting his tongue from reminding her once again that she was hurt, and they were in the middle of a storm.

  Instead of reminding her of that, he just started walking. “This way. If you can't keep up, then I will be carrying you.”

  The arrogance behind his words should bother her, but instead, it made her smile. She kind of had a thing for arrogant tough on the outside, softies on the inside guys.

  Putting one foot in front of the other quickly required her entire focus.

  Everything else blurred around her into one large, white, all-encompassing nothingness.

  Left foot.

  Right foot.

  Left foot.

  Right foot.

  Paisley repeated the mantra over and over.

  If she stopped, she feared her body would stop, too, and she still wasn't sure about this man, so she needed to keep her guard up. She needed him to believe that she was strong.

  And maybe if he believed it, she would, too, because right now she wasn't feeling very strong.

  Her whole body quivered.

  She felt like any minute now she would be nothing but a puddle.

  “We’re here.”

  It took a moment for the words to register and her feet kept moving until she bumped into the back of the man.

  She bounced right off him but was prevented from falling when he spun and caught her elbow.

  “We’re here,” he said again, apparently assuming her head wasn't really focusing quite right.

  He was correct.

  “Here,” she echoed, more for her own benefit. “Your cabin.” She surveyed the place before her. There were two lights, which appeared to be on either side of the front door that allowed her to see a little more than vague shadowy outlines. The cabin was set in a small clearing, and it looked cute, like something straight out of the old west. From what she could see, there was a porch, a couple of dormer windows, and a huge stone fireplace on one side.

  It looked like heaven.

  It was only the fear about the chances of two men being in the same place she crashed her car at the same time that held her back from going running straight inside in search of shelter and warmth and pain pills.

  “What's your name?” she asked, as it suddenly o
ccurred to her that she didn't even know that simple piece of information about the man whose home she was about to enter.

  “Stephen. Stephen Evans.”

  Stephen.

  Was that a good name or a bad name?

  She was way too tired to tell.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  It was now or never.

  She had to decide if she was going in there or not.

  The place was secluded—the perfect location if he was, indeed, a serial killer.

  But she wasn't getting a bad vibe from him anymore. The more time she spent with him, the more his presence began to comfort her rather than scare her.

  “Can I at least help you walk these last few yards?” Stephen asked.

  “Okay,” she agreed—a little too readily for her own liking.

  This time she anticipated his arm coming around her waist to support her, and she leaned into him. He felt strong, not just physically, but he seemed to possess an inner strength that rolled off him and began to seep into her, providing her with enough energy to keep moving.

  As they walked toward the cabin, Paisley really hoped she was making the right decision. Otherwise, she was like a lamb leading herself to the slaughter.

  Chapter Eight

  Finally, she was ready to come inside.

  Stephen hadn’t been sure that she would say yes. She’d been wavering on whether or not she believed him ever since he had told her he was a cop. She was still wavering. She wanted to believe him; she wanted to believe she was safe from whatever monster she thought was after her, but she still wasn't completely convinced.

  Once he got her inside and found out how badly she was hurt, he would find out exactly what she had seen that had convinced her someone wanted to kill her.

  She leaned heavily against him as he led her toward his cabin. She felt so small, so fragile against his side, and every time he touched her, he got that weird feeling inside. It was warm and kind of fuzzy and tingled in his chest.

  He had never felt this before. It was extremely disconcerting.

  He was happy out here on his own, and after what he’d been through recently, he didn't want another person intruding on his life or his heart. And yet that was exactly what this woman appeared to be doing.

  Bringing her inside might be the practical thing to do. Her car was ruined, the storm was raging, she was injured, and his cabin had only been a quarter of a mile away.

  But Stephen already knew it went beyond being practical.

  Love at first sight suddenly became something more than just the plethora of corny movies his sisters watched.

  No.

  Not love at first sight.

  Hadn’t he learned his lesson the last time?

  Patch the girl up, wait out the storm, send her on her way.

  That was it.

  That was all he had to do.

  Don’t let her see what was inside him—the fear, the insecurity, the overwhelming desire to have someone who was his, who belonged to him mind, body, and soul.

  Just let her think he was the arrogant cop, the protector, the savior—that role he could play.

  Stephen just hoped the storm was over before she learned the truth about what a fraud he was.

  Chapter Nine

  As soon as they stepped inside the cabin, the first thing Paisley noticed was the silence.

  The wind no longer shrieked and howled and fought to shove her down.

  It was so still in here.

  So peaceful.

  The relief was overwhelming. For a while, she’d been sure that the storm would claim her, pick her up, and take her away with it. Now that she was free of its clutches, she could do nothing more than merely stand and relish it.

  Stephen, on the other hand, didn't appear to be relishing anything. He released her as soon as they were indoors and disappeared. A moment later, light flooded the cabin.

  Still used to the dark, she immediately squinted so she could take in her surroundings.

  Okay, this wasn't so bad.

  Yeah, it was a little sparsely furnished inside, but other than that, the cabin had a nice feel to it. There was a sofa in front of the fireplace. There were four chairs and a small square table covered with a red checked tablecloth. There was a bookshelf to one side of the fireplace that was crammed full of books, and a TV on a stand on the other side of the fireplace. The kitchen was small—just an ancient looking range, a small fridge, and wooden bench. There was no bed but there was a partition that separated the cabin into two rooms and she assumed on the other side was the bedroom.

  It was like being in some pioneer cabin—minus the TV, of course. Did he really live here? It didn't really seem like the kind of home a guy like Stephen would live in; it wasn't really “cop-like.”

  Maybe he was a serial killer.

  No.

  He wasn't.

  Paisley felt it when he touched her.

  She wasn't sure where Stephen had gone, and right now she didn't care. That couch was looking pretty good. It had thick, soft looking cushions that her head couldn’t wait to lay down on. Then she could close her eyes and drift away and maybe when she woke up she’d find this was all just some horrible nightmare.

  “Are you shot?”

  The voice caught her by surprise.

  “What?” She tried to turn to look at him, but Stephen clamped a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.

  “This looks like a bullet wound.”

  Paisley wanted to argue against what he was saying. She hadn’t been shot. Who would shoot her?

  Then she remembered.

  The man in the road.

  He’d had a gun.

  He’d held it pointed at her as she drove toward him.

  She had felt pain before she crashed her car.

  He must have fired at her, shot her.

  “You need to sit.” Stephen didn't wait for her to reply, just maneuvered her across the room and into one of the chairs at the table.

  Nor did he wait to get her permission before he started trying to pull her sweater off.

  “What are you doing?” She grabbed her clothes and tried to hold them in place.

  “I need to see if the bullet is still inside you,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  That hadn’t even occurred to her, but she knew enough to know that if the bullet was still inside her body, then it could travel and end up causing her more harm. But surely, she was okay. She had run from Stephen, making it several yards through the woods before he caught up to her. If she’d been going to bleed to death, then surely, she would have done so before now.

  “What are you going to do if it’s still in there?”

  “Take it out.”

  Take it out himself? He was a cop, not a doctor.

  “No. You need to call for help,” she protested. She’d been shot and injured in a car accident. She needed a hospital not just some first aid from a man she still wasn't one hundred percent sure hadn’t been standing in the middle of a road holding a human head and causing the injuries she now needed him to care for.

  “Can't,” he said quietly.

  “What do you mean you can't?”

  “Storm must have messed with the reception.”

  So, she was stuck here.

  It seemed she had no choice but to accept whatever help he could give her.

  Paisley tried to pull her sweater up and over her head but cried out when pain screamed through her right shoulder. She had been so focused on getting away from Stephen that she hadn’t even really felt the full force of the pain.

  Now that she was safe, it was so bad she could barely think.

  “Take these.” Stephen picked up her hand and put some pills into it then shoved a glass of water into her other hand. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

  Right now, she would take what she could get. Paisley downed the painkillers and was relieved when she felt him cutting away her clothes because she wasn't sure that even with her pain dull
ed she could move her shoulder enough to take off her sweater.

  Surprisingly gentle fingers probed just below her shoulder blade, and because he was being so careful with her, Paisley sucked in her lower lip and chewed on it to keep from crying out again. When she looked down at her chest, she couldn’t see anything. No exit wound meant the bullet was still inside her body.

  With nothing on but her bra, she began to shake. Cold from being out in the storm was catching up with her, plus add a good dollop of shock, and her shivering was uncontrollable.

  Stephen couldn’t help but notice and scooped her up, carrying her to the sofa and laying her down on her stomach. The couch was every bit as soft as it had looked and she sank down into it, letting it ease some of her pain. A moment later a soft, fleecy blanket covered her, and a small sigh escaped her dry, chapped lips. Paisley knew what was coming, Stephen was going to remove the bullet, but for this moment she was just going to enjoy being comfortable and warm.

  “I'm going to pour some alcohol on your wound,” Stephen told her.

  “Okay.” Paisley braced herself.

  Even though she had thought she was prepared, she wasn't. Tears stung her eyes, and she moaned and tried to breathe through the pain.

  “You're doing great,” Stephen told her, patting her back. “I'm going to use a pair of tweezers to pull the bullet out. It must have gone through the back of the car seat and slowed down before it hit you. It’s just inside the wound. I should be able to get it out pretty easily, and since we don’t know when we’re going to be able to get help, I'm going to stitch the wound.”

  That he was talking her through what he was doing helped to calm her, and although she flinched when the tweezers probed inside her wound, it wasn't as bad as she’d been expecting. Maybe the painkillers were finally starting to kick in.

  “Got it,” Stephen announced triumphantly.

  “That’s good,” she murmured, feeling increasingly sleepy and unsure how much longer she could remain awake.

  The only thing that kept her going and awake was that she wasn't quite ready to make herself that vulnerable in front of Stephen. Okay, she no longer really thought he was the man she’d seen with the human head, but he was still an enigma. He was arrogant, and he liked to take charge, and yet she sensed there was more to him than that.

 

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