Page 4 of Claimed By the Hitchhiker

With Damien’s old leather wallet in one hand and his ID in the other, I stare at the black-and-white photograph. Damien Davenport.

I’m still reeling from my escape, but I’m not blind. He’s good-looking. Not like the boys I see in magazines. Not the type of guy who swings his weight around but actually has nothing to back it up.

No. He’s the kind of man who says what he means and means what he says. And that’s sexy as hell.

He’s so massive I actually mistook him for a tree and passed him by. When I saw him in the rearview mirror, I hesitated for a beat because a man his size could easily crush me with his bare hands.

But…

I also couldn’t leave him out in the cold, knowing I hadn’t passed another soul in two hours.

When my truck lurched to a stop, I was shocked to see a ruggedly handsome man, his brown eyes dilated as he took all of me in. His dark hair was mussed up, droplets of water clinging to the strands. The tip of his ears and nose are flushed, puffs of steam visible when he breathes. He’s impossibly tall, even if he’s hunching his shoulders.

At one glance, he looked threatening. But his eyes said otherwise. It made me feel as though he was seeing through my soul. I couldn’t explain it, but on a primal frequency, I knew I wasn’t making a mistake by letting him hitch a ride. I very well couldn’t have his death on my conscience if I left him in that weather.

I knew it was cold because I was wearing a thin dress with short sleeves. Well, I was cold until he offered me his jacket. When he wore it, it showed off his broad shoulders. On me, I look like I’m drowning in leather.

He’s just wearing a black Henley shirt underneath, and maybe I should look away, but I’m mesmerized by how his muscles bunch each time he moves. And something about the way he talks, his deep baritone voice, and the confident way he sits do things to me.

I’ve seen guys once in a while in the compound and those in magazines, but no one can hold a candle to Damien. They all pale in comparison to him. It’s not even a fair comparison. And just sitting beside him makes me feel safe.

Maybe even if they come, they’ll lose to him. Maybe they’ll run the other way. I can’t wait to see Father’s face when he sees Damien shielding me with his huge frame.

I don’t know why that thought amuses me.

Damien’s voice brings me back to the present. “You can scoot over. I’ll head to your side.”

When he’s comfortably seated on the driver’s side, he drapes his arm over the back of my seat and motions to the ID I’m still holding. “You can check my name online if we get access to the internet.”

I struggle to make sense of his words, and he might as well have been speaking a different language. “Online? Inter-what?”

He tilts his head to the side as he searches my face, and I feel warmth rise to my cheeks. I don’t look my best. Okay, that’s generous. I look like total shit. And the way he’s staring at me right now? It makes me self-conscious, something I’ve never felt before.

I’ve only just met him, but I’ve been subjected to various emotions that feel foreign to me. A man like him with someone like me? Ha. I doubt that. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo. Or crazy. Or both. I won’t even be surprised if he thinks I escaped from an asylum. I mean, I look like I did.

He’s about to ask me something, but just then, a sudden roar jolts me. My heart leaps in my chest as a motorcycle speeds past us. My pulse pounds in my temple, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. I swing my gaze to the rider, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead as I quickly scan if I know him, if he’s one of them.

But he doesn’t stop. It’s not them. It’s not them.

Oh god. I’m losing my mind.

With my hand on my chest, I try to calm my racing heart. Realizing we’ve been sitting idle for a while, I pull on Damien’s sleeve, electric current zapping through the air the moment my knuckles brush his bicep even with the thin fabric of his shirt between our skins.

I gasp and pull my hand back as if he just burned me. Maybe he did because I feel warm all over.

Turning my head to the window and keeping my gaze outside, I gulp. “Let’s go. We can talk on the way.”

He doesn’t say a word, just continues to take a quick look my way before he shifts the gear and drives. When we’re far enough, I breathe a sigh of relief, the tension leaving my body.

I adjust the jacket and rub my dirty feet together.

Nothing escapes him apparently even if he’s fairly quiet because he says, “I have a couple of socks and slides in my bag. Grab a pair so your feet won’t get cold. If you’re hungry, I also have a half-eaten sandwich and some granola bars. Help yourself.”

He doesn’t even need to tell me twice. Before I know it, I’m on my second granola bar. I don’t know what it is but it either tastes good or my taste buds are overwhelmed after years of eating bland foods. “Aren’t you wondering if I hurt someone?”

He does a double take. “Did you?”

“No. But you’re not wondering why I look this way?”

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