Stanford. Nothing is going to stand in my way to become a doctor.

  Ignoring the cold sweat gluing her dress to her back and ignoring him, which is hard, she ventures past the inevitable and seeks for something further, unreachable.

  Freedom.

  He’s only a foot away and not giving an inch as he visually dissects her. The door is closed. There are no possible weapons near her or big enough to use against him.

  God he is so big. Why does he have to be so... muscly?

  Her options are thin, falling through her fingertips like melting snow.

  “Wanna say that again." The lethal deadness of his voice shatters whatever she’s attempting to put together. Lethal and low and so damn calm it sends every nerve inside her up in a frenzy.

  She can’t take it back and she won’t.

  “I said I can’t let you do that.” Her chin rises, clashing with the terror that runs through her whole body. “I-I… I'm not letting you out of here... You’ll die."

  I’ll attend to the wound, make sure it won’t get infected and bandage it. That’s what this is about… nothing else…

  He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t open his mouth all the way when he grits out, “Is that so?” His brow arches, his eyes piercing hers.

  “Yes.” Becky reaches for something more, not wanting to anger him further, but the smug way he’s looking at her, knowing he’s in control of her and her life, ruffles Becky’s feathers.

  Her gut instinct tells her that if this is the same man she crossed paths with four years ago, then he’s calling her bluff. And from the way he’s been looking at her Becky surmises that he doesn’t know who she is.

  “You broke into my house, you practically assaulted me, I don't know what your intentions are for coming here but it's obvious from your injuries you need my help. I can’t let you just walk away. At least let me make sure that doesn’t get infected."

  She guesses by the strict way in which he advances forward that his goal is set and ready.

  What if something twisted and disturbing happened to him in the last few years… forcing something in his head to tick in the wrong way? And now he’s probably some sick freak who gets off scaring young women, playing sick mind games of cat and mouse, all-the-while he’s the one holding the strings the whole time.

  He gains ground never taking his eyes away from hers and in a flash, there’s only an inch between them. She doesn’t try and hide the terror welling up and spilling out. The engine in her brain is dead and her only solutions involve kicking his balls and spitting in his face.

  His breath streams out in sluggish rivers of air against her forehead. If she moves she'll be touching him. If she breathes she'll be touching him. If she speaks she’ll be letting him get to her. Whoever this man is he knows how to read people. He is pushing all the right buttons, squeezing them to the brink. Just when she thinks he will relent he pushes harder, sees deeper through her.

  “How about you think before you speak. That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble, woman."

  She feel his words—his warning—against her skin, begging her imagination for some small ray of distraction. Escape.

  She’s had a lot of dreams about reuniting with her savior. Most of them involved cinematic, romance scenes of kissing and waterfalls. None of them ever had him threatening her while bleeding to death in her attic.

  This is what twisted nightmares are made from...

  “If you're going to kill me just do it and get it over with."

  Those are the first words she has spoken to smite his stone-cold expression and she watches the subtle change in his guarded features. His eyes spark then fade. His body seems to waver the longer he plays his intimidating card, looming over her like a bear over a wiggling fish. She releases the tight grip on the front of her dress and her lungs don’t ache for air.

  He licks his lips, scans her eyes, then looks away, almost bored with what he’s about to say. “I'm not gonna kill you,” he finally lets out, in a tone that tells her she should already know that. “Don't be afraid."

  “Then stop threatening me," she says, huffing out all the air through her nostrils.

  Sweeping the room his head comes around toward hers again. “You wanna call for help, go ahead, but I'm not waiting around for them.” He tosses her a cold glare. “And don't think you're gonna try and stop me."

  He steps away and glances at the door, checking his wound. There’s fresh blood on his hand when he pulls it away from his side. He takes a gulp of air as though he’s fishing for strength where there is none.

  He must think he’s Superman or something.

  The fresh blood looks black in the room and small shadows of white catch the surface at the right angle of moonlight. “You're going to die,” she says. His hand trembles when he checks his side again. “You’re not going to make it very far with a wound like that. You must know that, surely."

  “Gimme twenty before you call,” he heaves out, making his way to the door, his boots sliding hard against the floor. Parallel from her he pauses at the door and repeats, “Twenty."

  Becky lets the tear fall from her eye not understanding why it’s there to begin with. She suddenly feels very tired.

  “Just… just get out,” she replies.

  He shakes his head, a glimpse of remorse playing in his stare for only a second before it changes to black and blank again. The old doorknob turns quick in his fast grip.

  But the door never opens.

  His forehead smacks into the door as his body jerks and then he is down.

  Becky catches him just as he falls, her body leaning on the door for her own support. Somehow his head finds its way into her lap and when she wonders why he doesn’t struggle to remove himself she peeks over the crown of his head to see that he is… unconscious again.

  She nudges his shoulder, presses her clammy fingertips into his cheeks but she gets nothing. She searches the room for answers, looks back down at the man in her lap then at the tiny window that appears so far away at this very moment.

  Her place… Her refuge… has morphed into a prison.

  Sighing, she glances at the ceiling praying for a bolt of lightning, a divine intervention to come and rescue her. The choices are there but which one does she make? Help the hero of her past who broke into her home, or leave him to die and call emergency services?

  She casts her gaze down at him.

  This is not the way she wants to remember her last summer at home. Cleo was right. This night will be unforgettable.

  The night that changed everything.

  Chapter Four

  DEBTS ALWAYS HAVE A PRICE.

  And all hundred-and-ninety pounds of it is sleeping on her dirty futon in the attic.

  The intruder has been sleeping for a while and Becky reasons with her sanity that as long as he isn’t awake and wrecking her nerves she doesn’t have to make a decision. Yet.

  Denial is the best form of medicine.

  “Rebecca, are you listening to one word I have been saying?"

  “Yes,” she replies, clutching the phone closer to her mouth. “I'm sorry. I just... I'm still groggy—you woke me up.” She can’t stop herself from turning around, peeking over her shoulder like a mental patient off her meds. What terrifies her more than the monster lurking in the attic is, having one that’s on death's door.

  “Your father and I are going to be here till morning. This place is a mess."

  “So what happened exactly? Like, what's wrong with the numbers?” Her lame attempt to sound enthralled fails miserably.

  “Daddy’s partner made an absolute mess of the books and your father, bless him, has to fix them. I'm doing what I can to help but its going to take all night, darling.”

  “Is Dad okay? Mom he seemed kind of weird when you left earlier. The study is a mess too; there are papers everywhere."

  “Oh... He's, uh, fine, sweetie. Just, you know, overwhelmed.”

  “I'll clean it up before he gets home—
"

  “No!” Her mother’s answer cuts through so fast Becky flinches. Within a second her mom’s tone switches. “Honey, that’s very kind of you but unnecessary. You're father has things that way for a reason. If you clean it up he won’t know where anything is now, will he?"

  “Um, I guess...”

  “Well then, we'll see you in the morning—Oh, have you checked on Toby, dear?"

  “He stirred a little so I checked his diaper and it was wet but he was so dead asleep he didn’t even wake when I changed him."

  “Good.” Her mother let her tiredness slip into her words as though she hasn’t slept all night. “Oh, before I forget, how was the ball? Did you have a good time? Did any handsome rich man ask you to dance with him?"

  “No."

  Her mother’s exhale of breath drowns in disappointment. “Rebecca."

  “Mom, please, I don't feel like regurgitating tonight's horrific events. Please. I'm tired and I need sleep."

  “This conversation is not over."

  Becky clenches her jaw. “Whatever. Goodnight, Mother."

  “No sleeping in and I am not going to be there to feed Toby. He likes his breakfast—”

  “At seven. He likes mashed corn in the morning with watered-down milk and then he likes to play in his playpen for about an hour before he gets tired again and naps, although—"

  “Rebecca, you're rambling. Just take care of him… I don't know when me and you're father will be home exactly.” Her mother makes a clicking sound and then stops and speaks again, lower this time, like she’s revealing her secret. “Listen, if anyone calls the house looking for your father don't tell them anything. Ask who they are and if they want to leave a message but don't tell them where your father is.”

  “Why?”

  “It's just… business is bad and your father might get in trouble because of this botch up."

  She’s lying.

  Everything seems so wrong somehow. Usually her mother’s words flow out rehearsed like some cheesy infomercial, but she’s rambling and her mother never rambles or stumbles over her words. Never.

  “Mom? What’s goin—”

  “Don't ask questions—just do as I say and make sure my little Tigger is okay."

  Becky rolls her eyes. “Okay."

  “Rebecca?"

  “Yes, Mother, I understand. Don’t ask questions.”

  “Goodnight, dear."

  “’Night.”

  Her cellphone buzzes as soon as she hangs up. Her heart nearly jumps out of her chest. God, she needed to get it together if a simple text-message alert nearly scared her to death. She flips it over pressing the side to light the screen. Cleo.

  B, y u not cll me? How was party? Need the 411. Cll me x

  Placing her cell beside her she looks over at her window. There is a faint shadow of light peeking through the curtain.

  The party. That seemed like weeks ago. This whole night somehow has become her whole life in a matter of seconds. It’s hard to wrap her mind around all that has happened in the last few hours. If only it had been just a nightmare… But as the cold, hard reality of day dawns she can’t fathom how she’s supposed to go on pretending to be as strong as she is.

  Her eyes drift to the ceiling. His eyes, blue and probing, cast a shadow over her running mind. She tries hard to remember his face when he vowed that no harm would come to her, but all she can see is hard-shaped diamond blue.

  “I am so dead,” she mutters, getting out of bed. She ambles out into the hallway. Sleep is never going to come. She’s still wearing her dress. It itches like hell and wraps around her so tight she feels like a mummy in spandex wrapping.

  She forces herself to walk past Toby's room; it will be the fourth time this hour that she’s checked on him. He is sound asleep and perfectly safe, but seeing it makes it more real.

  Nothing seems safe right now. Not her house, her mind, the attic… it has all morphed into a bizarre version of some dark Hitchcock setting. Dark, dreary and dank. Like the way she feels inside.

  She halts at the landing staring at a framed picture of her family at the top of the stairs. It appears normal and unscathed to the situation impounding through her. It’s the same picture that’s been there since they lived in this house, but now, staring at it, willing it to remind Becky of yesterday and normalcy, the picture can’t be more foreign to her eyes.

  She’s stalling. It’s time to face the truth. No amount of delaying will change the fact that his presence has somehow collided with hers. His health, his death—it’s all in her hands being hurdled at her from several scattered directions. Reaching the attic she brushes her hair back from her face and curses her life.

  Time to enter the lion’s den...

  The sight almost steals her breath away. He’s curled up in a fetal position and looks… innocent. So at peace.

  She pads over to him, her heart skipping a beat. He’s too handsome, stunningly so, with sharp but rugged features. Before she can gain control over her hand it reaches out and strokes the dark tempting ruff of whiskers on his chin. She traces a faint cream-colored scar that runs the edge of his powerful jawline and guides her fingers over his cheekbone to his handsome, well-formed mouth. Her gaze lingers on his generous bottom lip and the upper with its strong cupid’s bow.

  How can something so beautiful be so deadly?

  A scorch of heat prickles up her neck and it zaps her mind into focus, remembering what needs to be done. His fever is climbing. Like clockwork she’s checked it every hour and it’s worrying her. His skin is soaking in sweat, it burns at the touch. His side hasn’t bled since he last collapsed but that isn’t the danger anymore. If he has an infection, if this fever is the first stages leading to pneumonia, her bedside care will only delay his death by maybe a couple of hours—days, if he’s stronger than most.

  The water splatters in the basin when she rings the damp cloth over it. She touches as lightly as her shaky hands can control. All she does is tremble now, her heart stuck in a perpetual state of hysteria. Her chest continues to sink tightly like it’s trying to make its way into her spine.

  He moans underneath her.

  He’s restless, mumbling incoherencies. She moves the blanket to cover more of him, but it continues to fall off as the abnormal breath of the man's shoulders gets more violent. His eyes drift open. She pauses casting him a weary but hopeful glance. She sees the blueness clear and it shuts everything else out when his eyes land on hers.

  Becky freezes in place. They are so blue she hears herself say it out loud and instantly feels naked. Her strokes smooth down his bare arm, across the thick corded veins that run all the way up and she shifts it from beneath the heavy comforter. His arm is unimaginably solid and so thick with muscle that a hot buzz skims the surface of her flesh.

  He moans, licking his lips. His eyes never leave hers. Watching, but not quite staring. It’s as if he’s searching her for something. The intimate nearness sends lightning frissons through her and her fingers tingle.

  She dips the washcloth in the basin again careful to stay focused on what she’s trying to do for this stranger. He’s probably delirious with fever. His features are agonizingly hard and constricted, waiting for the next bout of pain to railroad through his body. His panting becomes a little more aggressive and louder, his pain unmistakable.

  “Shssh. It's okay,” she murmurs. The cloth is in her right hand and the other cascades through his thick dark hair. She brushes a few strands from his hot forehead then sweeps the tips of her fingers through the side of hair near his ear. She curls her fingers around the short strands where his ear curves following the natural line his hair shapes. She does this over and over without thinking, just resting on instinct. “It's okay.” She hovers over him, closer, waiting for a small sign of consciousness. His eyes move back in between hers, waiting on the brink of catching something.

  “I-I…" His swollen lips part. He swallows with great difficulty, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He squeezes
his eyes shut for the first time in minutes. His whole body is shivering.

  “You're going to be all right. Just rest.” Her voice comes out hushed and quiet, softens to a delicate whisper. She feels his body react underneath her, immediately becoming alert to how close to his face she is.

  Her breath holds and she recognizes that his chest stops moving too. “It's okay.” She rests her palm then, cupping the side of his face, her thumb moving against the end of his sharply-lined jaw. “Sleep… You're going to be okay. Just sleep."

  This is against her nature. All of this is. Going on her instincts, feeding and obeying her first reactions, helping a man, a strange man, fight a bullet wound and possible death... Everything is happening all at once and the only thing Becky decides she can control is this man's pain.

  She doesn’t know if she is comforting him or not but his face remains rooted to hers. He never breaks stride with the pace her glances take on him. He looks through her like a man eyeing the last life preserver. His eyes flash open again, locking her in an intense visual grip. His stare demands her to not look away.

  And she can’t.

  It’s raw. Primal. The stream of air in her lungs dies. Her chest burns but the words comes out anyway like there’s another soul inside of her possessing some other piece of her. She doesn’t know where the urge to soothe him and why her body reacts in pure compulsion to do so, but she can see outside herself as she does it—

  The ring startles her.

  She jumps, the rag in her hand falling onto the chest of the man beneath her. He doesn’t move. Becky hears the ring again.

  It’s coming from him.

  She slides the blanket down and the noise gets louder.

  It’s in his leather jacket.

  There is no way I’m putting my hands in there… But what if it’s his family worried about where he is? Oh God... I have to do it...

  She slips her fingers inside his jacket, slowly at first, but when he groans, her breath hitches in her throat and she quickly catches the small device between her fingers, yanking it out as fast as possible. She stands and walks away from him almost dropping it as her sweaty hands try and find the volume button.