There are no such things as werewolves.
How could she dismiss what she’d seen? Rather, what she thought she’d seen. If, and it was a big if, she’d been attacked as badly as she’d imagined, she’d be dead. Right? Right.
And Mal had been in a cell. Naked. He’d carried her out, into the snow, naked.
She covered her mouth, trying to stop the slightly hysterical laugh from slipping out.
What, if any of that, was real?
Mal was real. She pressed her fingers to her lips. All too real. The way he watched her. His growl of a voice. The way he shielded her, protected her, over and over.
She stared down, shrugging out of the coat and draping it over the sink. Her hand shook as it ran along her thigh. She could feel a scar, raised but smooth, through the denim. She untied the rope belt and held the fabric back to inspect where she’d been wounded, and sucked in an unsteady breath. Scars like that took a long time to heal.
How long had she been in the cabin?
“Olivia?” Mal banged on the door.
“One second,” she called out, overwhelmed with indecision and fear. What was going to happen to her? She ran for the stall, falling to her knees by the toilet as her stomach violently rejected its contents.
The bathroom door slammed into the wall, and Mal stood, staring down at her.
“Five minutes?” She held her hand up. “I can’t have five minutes alone?”
His features relaxed. “You’re sick.”
She leaned back against the stall, closing her eyes. “I’m fine.”
He snorted, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.
She glared at him. Sure, he could look like that when she looked like some extra from a zombie apocalypse movie. “I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
He paced the small room, his hands on his hips. “You’ve done well.”
He didn’t look at her, but his words were soft.
She rested her chin on her knees, peering up at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He kept pacing, his nod quick.
It took all her energy to ask, “Can I go home?” She swallowed, trying again. “Can I pretend none of this happened? I want to go home and to un-know the things threatening my idea of the world. Please?”
He crouched by her, tilting her face toward his. “No.”
“You can’t keep me against my will—”
“I can bend your will to mine, Olivia.” He sighed, stroking her cheek. “Whether you like it or not—whether I like it or not—your home is with me.”
She frowned. She didn’t like it. And yet, part of her really did. “For how long?” Why was everything so confusing?
He took her hand in his, pulling her up. “You need a shower.”
She tugged her hand free. “Did anyone ever tell you to work on your bedside manner?”
“No one has ever complained about my bedside manner.” He grinned.
He was going to tease her? Now, when she was having an emotional crisis? He had no idea how close she was to running. She could always make a scene—surely some truckers would come to her defense if she said he’d taken her against her will. Then she could leave…
Stop it.