Taken By Him (Obsessed With Him, Book Four) by Hannah Ford

 
 
 
 
 
    TAKEN BY HIM
    (Obsessed With Him, Book Four)
    by Hannah Ford

 
    Copyright 2015, Hannah Ford, all rights
reserved.   This book is a work of
fiction, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.   All characters
depicted in this book are eighteen years of age or older.

 
 
    ***

 
    The next thing I knew, Colt was calling my
name, pulling me back from the blackness that had briefly pulled me under.
    “Olivia,” he demanded.   “Fuck, Olivia, what the hell happened?”
    He pulled me into a sitting position from where
I was slumped over on the floor and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at
him.   “Look at me,” he said.   “What happened?   Who did this to you?”   He turned my arm over in his hand and
looked at my wrists, his eyes widening when he realized I’d done it to
myself.   “Christ, Olivia.”
    He reached behind him and pulled his shirt off,
wrapping it around my wrists in an effort to stop the bleeding
    My breathing was being to return to its normal
rhythm as the initial shock of seeing all the blood began to fade.
    “Stay here,” Colt commanded.   “Stay here and do not move.”
    I nodded, too weak to argue.  
    He returned a second later with a first aid kit
and a bottle of water.   He opened
the first aid kit and then raised my hands up over my head, holding the fabric
of his shirt against my wrists tightly, applying pressure to my cuts.
    “Do I need stitches?” I asked.
“Depends on if I can stop the bleeding.”
    I nodded.   Everything inside of me was screaming to push him away, to tell him to
leave me alone, that I didn’t need his help. I was angry with him, angry with
him for kissing me, for causing me to lose my mind, to be driven almost insane
with lust for him.
    I would have let him fuck me, right here in
this room.
    But he’d rejected me.
    He didn’t want me.
    I’d broken my promise to Declan, a promise I’d
kept all these years, for a man who couldn’t have given two shits about me.
    Fuck Colt, I thought.   As soon as
I was feeling better, I was out of here.  
    Those dark eyes were locked on mine as he held
my wrists so tight I couldn’t move, the tension between us crackling so
intensely I could almost see it, like a taut electric wire joining us
together.  
    I hate you, I chanted to myself, begging my brain to accept it as truth. I
hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
    After a few more minutes, Colt pulled my arms
down and began unwrapping his shirt from around my wrists.
    I winced when I saw what I’d done to
myself.   Marks crisscrossed my arms
like chicken scratches.   I would
have scars.   Not like the ones I
already had, either.   Bad ones.   Ones I might not be able to hide.
    The wounds were still leaking blood, but it had
slowed considerably.
    Colt reached into the first aid kit and grabbed
an antiseptic wipe, ripping it open with his teeth.
    “This is going to sting,” he said, no trace of
sympathy or regret in his voice, just a warning that what was about to happen
was going to hurt.   But even though
the tone in his voice was devoid of emotion, he was gentle as he began carefully
cleaning my wounds.
    “Do I need to go to the hospital?” I asked, not
sure I wanted to hear the answer.   Hospitals meant questions.   They meant filling out paperwork with spaces for addresses and names of
next of kin.   Hospitals meant
doctors who wanted to send you to talk to social workers, stays in psych wards,
and huge bills I would never be able to pay.
    And that didn’t even include the actual medical
part of the whole thing, which meant needles and stitches and shots and
monitors.
    “No,” Colt said.   “I can fix it with a butterfly stitch.”
    “What’s a butterfly stitch?” I asked, slightly
panicked.   I went to pull my arms
away from him, but he held my wrists tight.
    “Relax,” he said.   “It’s just a special kind of band-aid.”
    “Oh.”   I watched as he finished with the