Page 3 of Full Throttle

I ached. Everywhere.

Why was I hurting so much? Where was the warmth I felt before I fell asleep? Why did my tongue feel funny?

I remembered being behind the wheel, doing pretty fucking good for driving Leon Torrance’s car instead of mine. I remembered coming up to the U-turn on the race route, getting ready to shift. Then—

My eyes shot open, and all I saw were cheap ceiling tiles as my chest heaved, the memories attacking me.

The explosion.

Leon’s car flipping.

My body jerking against the harness and the immediate pain.

The smell of gasoline and oil.

The heat.

So much fucking heat.

Then…a voice calling out to me, using a name I hadn’t heard in a long time.

I blinked, the memories began to fade away as the sounds of a hospital surrounded me: the steady beat of a heart monitor, the hum of machines, the stale smell of bleach and cleaning supplies. Slowly, I turned my head, only to find that I was in the one in the fucking hospital bed.

Great.

I tried to sit up, but shooting pain on my right side caused me to fall back. I let out a small groan, wincing as I brought my hand to the source of the pain. My hand snagged on the crisp white hospital sheets and I looked down at the IV, my eyes focusing on the dirt on my skin. I held out both of my arms, taking in the scrapes and bruising as my breath began to quicken.

What the fuck happened? Why did the car explode?

More importantly, how in the fuck was I not dead?

I dropped my arms, and something in the far corner of the room caught my attention. My breath caught, panic attack forgotten as my eyes landed on pale blonde hair, illuminated by the moonlight shining in the window.

Cain’s long and lean body took up the space of the shitty hospital chair. His eyes were hidden in the shadows, but I could feel them on me, piercing through my soul, as they always did. His jean-clad legs were bent at the knee, spread apart as his long, tattooed arms draped effortless over the arm rests, his hands hanging down.

I swallowed, my throat dry and burning. “Cain?” I forced out, my voice raspy.

He said nothing. After a moment, he moved, slow and calculated, like a panther. His hands moved back, gripping the arm rests, pushing his tall body up to stand. He moved then, step after step, his Air Force Ones damn near silent against the tile floor.

A cold, uncomfortable feeling slithered up my spine between me and the bed.

That feel was fear.

I whimpered as the shadows fell away from him, revealing the unhinged anger that lingered in his menacing blue eyes. I tried swallowing again, but it was no use.

“Cain?” I whispered, my hands gripping the hospital blanket, the fabric coarse and irritating.

I tried to move my legs, to push up, to get somewhat of an advantage against him. The twinge of pain in my right ankle stopped me, and a brand-new fear gripped me by the throat.

What the fuck was wrong with my ankle?

I was torn from my worries as Cain’s cologne, a mix of citrus and pine, enveloped me. He leaned over the bed, his fists planting themselves on either side of my head, making deep dips into my pillow. I stopped breathing all together, the steady beep of the heart monitor increasing by the second. A lock of his hair fell in front of his forehead, hanging down as he glared at me.

His lips, ones that had been the definition of perfection on this shitty planet once, formed into a snarl as he growled, “You. Are. Done.”

Three little words.

You'd think, after a near death experience, that you’d hear a different set of three little words, but that wasn’t the case.

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