Read Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale for Free Online Page B

with rage. Then a low thud, followed by men’s shouts.
I can tell they’re fighting because I hear their bodies beat the wooden floor. Grunts and curses.
Win, Race, win!
I hear a gun shot and my body jerks. I wait for the swaying sensation that always follows any movement I make in these ropes, but it never comes. I peek my eyes open, startled to find I’m on the floor now, curled into a ball. My slashes sting. My body trembles.
I look for Race, slanting my gaze up, and I don’t see him at first because he’s kneeling in front of me. A gargling sound comes from somewhere behind him.
He bows down low, so his face is near mine. “Focus on me, okay. I’m here now.” He pulls me into his arms, and I wrap myself around him.
I see the man’s form on the floor and then we’re going down the stairs.
I blink a few times, looking at Race’s blood-streaked neck. It looks strong and sort of hard, for a neck. It's nice.
Will he be mad at me? Will he be mad I let myself get caught?
The thought makes my stomach feel like a deflating balloon.
I’m aware of the gentle bouncing of him walking down the stairs. Abruptly he sinks down on one of them, hugs me tight enough to hurt, and pushes his face into my neck. I cry, and his hand crawls up my cheek, wiping the tears tenderly away.
“I’ve got you now, Red,” he whispers. “I won’t let you go again.”
     
    *
     
Time spools out ahead of us. We’re at his house in what, to me, feels like seconds, and he’s opening the back door—the one I must have been carried through after my attacker hit me in the head. I cling to Race’s strong neck, feeling weak and hot, like I might get sick. My arms and legs are numb and I am only stomach.
Race stops in the doorway of the bathroom, looking down at me with soft eyes. “He really didn't...? Are you sure ?”
I tuck my chin against my neck and nod.
I watch his gaze break away from the hot mess that is me and sweep the room: where I crashed through the shelf, where I was caught. He steps past the mess, to the tub, and tucks me against his chest while he runs the water.
As the echo of water fills the bathroom, he looks up and down my body. His face is stern, unfeeling, but his eyes pop wider as his gaze falls on my arm.
“He cut you?”
Fresh tears blur my view of him. I nod.
He rises up from his crouch, still holding me secure against his hard, bare chest. He steps into the tub and sinks down slowly. Despite how gently he is moving, his muscles are tight.
He settles me close to the faucet, leans my shoulder against the wall, and, when he’s touched my shoulders and tucked my hair behind me, he steps out of the tub. Water cascades down his legs, onto the plush, brown rug. He steps out of his jeans and toward the cabinets, where he reaches inside and pulls out a First Aid kit.
He drops it on the counter, turns to look at me, and then, with his jaw locked tight, he strides to the wall and drives his fist through it.
“GODDAMNIT! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! GODDAMNIT!” Between each roar, he smashes a new hole in the wall.
I hug my knees. My pulse races. Should I give him privacy? Maybe, but I can’t just sit here. I stand up, wanting—needing—to go to him. As I step out of the tub, a line of blood flies through the air, and I realize he’s using his right fist. The hand he paints with.
“Race, no! STOP!” All my cuts sting from the water and the paint dripping off me, but I rush over to him anyway, twisting so he doesn’t catch me with his elbow. I grab his forearm. “Stop! Stop! You’re gonna hurt your hand! Stop!” I cling tighter to his arm as he drives it into the wall again, and when he pulls it back again, I throw my other arm around his waist. I press myself against his back.
“Stop it! Stop it! Please Race, stop!”
He’s so big compared to me, and he’s filled with such fury. Every punch jolts his body a few inches. My wet feet slide against the floor. I cling to him, saying his name over and over, pressing my forehead