Page 73 of Carved Obsession

“Oh.” I reach over to where the damage is, but he grabs my wrists, pulling it away.

“You’re dirty. Do not touch it.”

Shit, of course.

“Oh god, where is that from?” My hands tremble as I look down, but in this darkness and with all the pouring rain, I can’t see shit.

I can’t even see blood, only the slight rip in my dark T-shirt, but with the panic threads now gone and Carter’s intoxicating gaze away from mine, my brain finally focuses on that feeling it’s been pushing back.

I am hurt. This fucking night just keeps getting worse.

Though, with this man kneeling at my feet, head tipping back to look at me with a sinfully cocked eyebrow, it might not be that bad after all.

“You’re running on adrenaline, aren’t you?”

Sure, that’s it.

He can’t yet know why my reaction is not quite . . . normal.

On a series of quick, jerky nods, I begin to fumble with my fingers. “Is it—is it in my back?”

His head bobs up and down slowly. “I saw it when you were looking for your phone. Don’t look,” he says as I’m about to pivot. “It’s very close to your waist, so it’s unlikely it hit anything important, but I should pull it out.”

“I thought you’re always supposed to leave that stuff in,” I argue.

“Not always.”

I frown. “What is it?”

He rises, placing one hand on the small of my back, bringing me even closer to him as I crane my head to catch more of those droplets that fall off of him.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, but before the last word leaves my lips, something scrapes through my insides, and I flinch against him.

He brings his other hand between us, and I grab the bloody object as he steps back.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It’s my goddamn pencil.

Of all the things that could have impaled me during the car crash, the pencil out of my toolbox was it.

“Hands up,” Carter orders me.

I frown at my extended arms, wondering why I didn’t even question his command.

He stands before me and wraps his suit jacket around me, tying it tight around my waist.

“It will keep pressure on the wound.”

“Thanks.”

He cocks his head, scrutinizing every bit of me. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” I strain my voice, trying out the fake gestures I’ve learned over the years—jerky movements, biting my lip, repeated blinking, and heavy breaths.

He doesn’t question me further. Instead, he looks at his phone, slides his fingers over the screen, and shakes his head.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” He shows me the map app.

I pinch the image and move it about until I find the rough area. I’m familiar with it. In my research for this job—or any job—I map out all the routes of escape or distraction. This was one of them. Though, I’m not one hundred percent sure where exactly in the forest we are. And I know for a fact we’re not close enough to civilization to walk through this raging storm in the middle of the night.