Defending Serenty Read Online Free PDF Page A

thighs like a second skin and the wet denim is almost as
sexy as nothing at all. I admire the sleek action of her muscles as
her legs pump, and when we gain her back porch I notice she isn’t
breathing hard either. Reaching around her, I grip the doorknob and
twist it, crowding through the door behind her.
    She sits down at the kitchen table and tugs
at her bootlaces while I toe off my shoes and strip off the rest of
my soaking clothes. If we stay cold and wet, hypothermia could set
in quickly. I lean against the counter and watch her struggle with
her laces until shivers rack her body. Naked, I kneel before her
and push her hands away, attacking the wet laces with a steak
knife. Then I stand us both up and yank the sweater over her head.
She reaches for her jeans, but she’s trembling so much her hands
can’t grip the zipper. I shove them away and peel them off,
dropping them in the pile of sodden clothes on the floor and
carrying her into the bedroom.
    I lay down with her, wrapping us both in the
quilt and rubbing my hands up and down her back trying to pass on
some of my body heat. She tries to pull away, but I hold her tight.
She is not warming as fast I’d like, but the shudders have slowed
enough so that she can speak without chattering.
    “I have to get up, Trace.”
    My arms flinch around her.
    “I’m okay,” she says. “I have to go back out
and look around. You can put your clothes in the dryer while I’m
gone,” she adds, wiggling free.
    She is already hopping into a dry pair of
jeans before I can react. She’s just going to blow me off and rush
back out into the downpour to see who’s hanging out on an old
lady’s dock? Anger straightens my spine and my hands fist. Ten
years of repressed rage boil to the surface and I struggle to force
it down.
    Looking up, she meets my gaze and
freezes.
    After a moment she shakes it off, finishes
dressing, and digs around in the closet pulling out a long yellow
rain slicker with POLICE emblazoned across the back. I stalk after
her and in the kitchen pick up my wet jeans, then drop them in
disgust. There is no way they are going back on. Well, she has to
come back here, doesn’t she? I’ll be waiting.
    “Um, Trace,” she starts.
    I look up to see her shifting on her feet,
her head is cocked to one side, studying me. She probably thinks
I’ve lost my mind. Not that I care.
    “Are you okay?”
    My throat tightens. Damn it, I won’t care. I
nod. She sighs with a slight shake of her head, obviously not
buying it.
    “The dryer’s in there.” She points to a set
of double doors near the refrigerator. “I won’t be long.”
    A gust of wind and rain blow in when she
steps outside, and with a small wave she is gone. I want to pace
and rant, but years of confinement have instilled in me the economy
of motion. Never take four steps when two will work. Never raise
your voice. Never show anger. Never feel anything . It is all
about survival. My survival. And the woman who has to pay for my
lost years.
    My stomach growls, and emotion hits me like a
punch in the gut. Sagging into an uncomfortable wooden chair, I
take a good look around. I’m sitting in Serenity Jameson’s kitchen
in my underwear and it isn’t a dream. I am free. I close my eyes
and take a deep breath. How many moments will I have like this?
When I realize I can move around without bumping into walls, or
yell and scream, or fuck the woman that drives me out of my
mind?
    My belly rumbles again and I walk to her
fridge. I can have a snack in the middle of the night. I open the
door and arch an eyebrow. No wonder she is so thin. She has no
food. There are some leftovers that look like science experiments
gone wrong, a twelve pack of Diet Coke, an open bottle of wine,
condiments, and buried in the back, an unopened package of sandwich
meat and a couple of slices of cheese. I bring them and the mustard
out and examine a loaf of bread lying on the counter. It doesn’t
look bad, so I slap a sandwich together