Theta Waves Book 1 (Episodes 1-3) by Thea Atkinson Page A

over.
    "Did you at least bring my clothes?" She asked him. She could make the trek in her underwear, shoeless, but it would look strange enough that it might draw attention.
    "You really are piece of work," he said.
    "I don't think it's too much to ask; you cut my clothes up after all. Granted, you did wrap me in a blanket so I wouldn't freeze when you kicked me out, but that's no reason I shouldn't expect the decency of clothing."
    "Do you have any idea what we went through?"
    A chill swept down her spine and she had to wrap the blanket tighter. "I imagine one of you-- probably Bridget--saw me lying there." She said the name with a touch of spite in her tone because thinking of Bridget and her perfect face made her want to hit something. "Then I suppose after she'd taken time to make the bacon and eggs and pancakes and all those nice little things that make a person expect a thank you, she felt as though I was taking advantage." She chewed the inside of her cheek in silence for a moment. "So yeah," she said. "I'm pretty sure I have a good idea."
    She expected him to protest, not touch her gently beneath the chin with his fingers, tilting her face toward his. His mouth was so close to hers his words could have come from her lungs. "You infuriate me," he said. "You're so damaged you can't even see what's in front of you."
    "I see plenty," she argued.
    His fingers swept behind her ear, cupping the back of her neck and massaging just beneath the bone at the base of her skull. She thought for a second that he might kiss her; he was already pulling her close, snaking his other arm behind her back. In that moment, her stomach churned with the possibility of it. She went as limp as she could, yielding to him, letting her torso arch into his.
    She wasn't sure how he managed it, but he yanked her backwards from the storm drain, blanket and all, out into the air currents of the supercity. The blanket was stuck between them, her back vulnerable and cold as the breeze hit it. Her bare feet told her exactly how late the night was; the frigid pavement sent shocks straight to her knees.
    "You want to get high," he said, his mouth sounded like it was clenched into a line of tightly controlled anger. "I'll get you high. I'll get you good and high, high enough that you'll wish I'd never found you."
    She was still trying to process everything, grasping at the blanket, trying to wrap it around herself to find some warmth, when he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.
    "It was my own smear," she argued against his back, acutely aware of his stubbled chin and jaw against her bare ass cheek. "It was mine to take as I wanted. You stole it from me."
    "You could have waited," he said.
    She felt him striding off, had to grip his waist to keep herself from bouncing against him.
    "Where are you taking me?"
    "Where you belong, obviously. You don't seem to care what kind of danger you're in."
    His idea of where she belonged became clear a few blocks later where she found herself plopped down unceremoniously onto her feet in front of a below street-level door. He pulled the blanket from her shoulders and flung it into the corner of the gutter, leaving her bare of everything but her borrowed bra and thong. She stood gaping at him, pulling her arms up around her chest because she was both cold and afraid. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with her bottom half.
    "This is surreal; you have no right," she started to say, but he placed his Palm over her mouth ever so gently.
    "There's no such thing as rights anymore, remember?" His face was close to hers in the dark and she could smell the soap on him from his shower the night before. "You almost died today, do you know that?" The throatiness of his voice unnerved her.
    "That was yesterday." She said into his hand, working hard to remember. Time really was slipping through her fingers.
    Without a word, he took his hand off her mouth and rapped the door smartly. It yawned open, held ajar by a petite