Hell Without You

Chapter 4

It wasn't a kitchen knife, either. It looked more like a Ka-Bar, the blade black and long enough to go more than halfway through a person. Had he brought it downstairs? Maybe he kept it in the military-green canvas sack he'd hauled to the bedroom across from hers.

"Hollins?" he asked, his voice rough. "That you?"

"No," she managed to say. "No, it's me, Clementine. Put the knife down."

"What'd you do with my rifle, Hollins?"

"Donovan!" He hadn't moved, but he still held the knife. Mustering as much bravado as she could, she tried for a firm tone. "Wake UP!" She tasted copper, the metallic tang of adrenaline.

"Fuck you, Hollins. Want some coffee anyway?"

He laid down the knife and started groping along the countertop.

"Yes," she breathed, her heart slowing just a little at the sight of the relinquished weapon. "I want coffee. Make me some." Inspired by desperation, she crept across the kitchen in her sock feet as he fumbled with the coffee maker.

Thank God he was at the counter by the stove, not the sink. Reaching for a glass in the cupboard above, she glanced over her shoulder repeatedly as she filled it at the tap.

He shoveled grounds into the coffee maker with surprising accuracy, spilling only a little. As she watched, her gaze was drawn to the knife lying less than a foot from his hand.

It was now or never – at least he was no longer holding the weapon.

Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, she flung the water from the cup, sending it flying across the kitchen.

It hit him square between the shoulders, colliding with a splash and gushing down his back, glistening wet against his skin as it ran down the crack of his ass and coursed over his thighs in rivulets.

He dropped the spoon he'd been using to scoop coffee grounds.

For half a second, that was it – no other reaction.

Then he turned, slowly, eyes open.

"Donovan?" Her voice came out too high, strained by fear that she'd done the wrong thing – woken him the wrong way. "Are you awake?"

"Was I asleep?"

His eyes focused rapidly, narrowing as they met hers. He seemed more alert than he'd been upon waking the night before – thank God.

She hurried across the kitchen, still too on edge to care that he was naked and wet. "Yes." Reaching for the knife, she gripped the handle. His lingering body heat warmed her fingers. "Don't you remember anything?"

"No." His gaze dropped to the weapon she held.

"You were holding this. Then you put it down – you thought I was someone else. And you started making coffee."

"You threw water on me?" He touched one of his arms, holding up wet fingers like he'd never seen water before.

She nodded. "I was afraid to come near you – afraid you'd pick up the knife again. Last night, you hit me."

"I hit you?" His eyes went wide, and he took a step backward, like she'd just swung the knife at him.

"Well, it was more of a shove," she amended, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of his horrified expression. "You just sort of threw your arm out and bumped me on the shoulder. I went down on my ass in the mud – for the record, that's why the pajama bottoms I hung to dry over the bathtub are stained brown across the butt."