Stranger in my Ass-Chapter 283

Maxwell’s POV

The first thing I became aware of was the color red.

Everything was bathed in it - a deep, crimson glow that seemed to pulse behind my closed eyelids.

Hell, was my first coherent thought. I’m in hell.

It made sense, in a way. After everything I’d done, maybe this was exactly where I deserved to be.

I tried to move and immediately regretted it.

Pain exploded through my chest - a deep, burning sensation that felt like someone had filled my lungs with broken glass and battery acid. My throat was raw, scraped from the inside, and tasted of salt and copper and something foul.

I coughed - a violent, wet sound that sent more pain radiating through my torso - and seawater came up. Not a lot, just enough to make me gag and turn my head to the side, letting it dribble out of my mouth.

My whole body felt heavy. Waterlogged. Like I’d been turned into one of those weighted blankets people used for anxiety, except the weight was inside me, pressing down on my organs, making every breath a conscious effort.

I tried to sit up and made it about halfway before my arms gave out and I collapsed back against whatever I was lying on.

Soft. A bed, maybe?

Did hell have beds?

I forced my eyes open, blinking against the red light that seemed determined to blind me.

My vision swam, everything blurry and out of focus. I blinked again, harder, trying to clear the fog. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the crimson haze.

A room. Small. Unfamiliar.

And sitting on a couch against the far wall, backlit by what I now realized was just a red-shaded lamp, was a man.

He was eating something - chips, by the sound of the crinkling bag - and watching me with an expression of mild interest, like I was an entertaining television show.

The moment our eyes met, he stopped mid-chew.

"Oh, thank God," he said, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm that seemed completely inappropriate for the situation. "He’s finally awake. I was starting to think I’d be stuck babysitting a corpse all night."

He dropped the bag of chips onto the couch beside him and stood up, brushing crumbs off his jeans.

I stared at him, my brain struggling to process what was happening.

Not hell. Probably not hell.

Unless hell had really updated its aesthetic.

"Where..." My voice came out as a croak, barely intelligible. I swallowed - which hurt like hell - and tried again. "Where am I?"

The man walked closer, and I got my first good look at him.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Tall and lean, with an athletic build. Dark hair that was slightly too long, falling into his eyes in a way that seemed deliberately careless. A few days’ worth of stubble on his jaw. And eyes that were sharp and assessing despite his casual demeanor.

He was wearing jeans and a thermal shirt that looked expensive but lived-in, and there was something about the way he carried himself - confident without being arrogant, relaxed but alert - that immediately put me on edge.

"You’re in the Hoptons’ beach house," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Guest bedroom, to be specific. And before you ask, yes, you almost died. You’re welcome, by the way."

I blinked at him, still trying to make my brain work properly.

"So I’m... not dead?"

The corner of his mouth twitched up in amusement.

"Not unless I’m Lucifer," he said dryly. "Which would be news to me, but I suppose anything’s possible. You did seem pretty convinced you were in hell when you first opened your eyes. The red lamp, right? Yeah, I probably should have turned that off, but I was going for ambiance."

He said it so casually, like we were discussing interior design choices instead of my near-death experience.

I tried to sit up again, moving more slowly this time, and managed to prop myself up on my elbows.

My head spun. My chest burned. I could feel water still sloshing around somewhere inside me, and the urge to cough was almost overwhelming.

"Easy there," the man said, though he made no move to help me. "You drowned. Well, almost drowned. Technically, I got to you before the actual dying part, but it was close. You’re going to feel like shit for a while. That’s normal."

"Who..." I had to pause to cough again, more seawater coming up. God, how much had I swallowed? "Who are you?"

He tilted his head, studying me with those sharp eyes.

"That’s the third question you’ve asked," he observed. "Not one of them has been about Olivia. Interesting."

Olivia.

The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

Everything came rushing back - the beach house, my father, the ocean, Olivia drowning, me finding her, pulling her to shore, doing CPR...

"OLIVIA!"

I shot out of the bed, or tried to. My legs weren’t quite ready for that level of commitment and I stumbled, catching myself on the nightstand before I face-planted.

The man didn’t move to help me, just watched with that same mildly interested expression.

I lurched toward the door, my vision swimming, my body screaming at me to lie back down.

"Olivia!" I called out, my voice hoarse and cracking. "OLIVIA!"

"Hey, hey, HEY!" The man moved then, stepping into my path and putting a firm hand on my chest. "Keep your voice down. Olivia’s sleeping, and trust me, after the night she’s had, she needs the rest. You want to wake her up?"

I looked at him, and something cold settled in my stomach.

The way he’d said her name. The casual familiarity. The protective tone.

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, my voice coming out harder than I’d intended. "And why are you talking about Olivia like you know her?"

He sighed, like I was being unnecessarily difficult.

"My name is Ian," he said, speaking slowly and clearly, like he was explaining something to a child. "I’m Olivia’s neighbor. My family’s beach house is just next-door. I was in the area when the storm hit and decided to stop by here for the night instead of trying to drive back to the city in that mess."

He gestured vaguely toward a window, where I could hear the rain still hammering against the glass.

"I was driving in," he continued, "when I heard someone screaming. Looked towards the beach and found Olivia on the beach, absolutely hysterical, trying to run back into the ocean while screaming some guy’s name. Maxwell, I think it was."

My name. She’d been screaming my name.

Something in my chest tightened painfully.

"She looked half-dead herself," Ian said, his tone losing some of its casual edge. "Soaking wet, shaking, could barely stand. Kept saying someone was in the water and needed help. I figured she was either in shock or had lost her mind - who the hell tries to swim in a storm like that? - but she seemed genuinely convinced someone was drowning."

He paused, his eyes meeting mine with something that might have been grudging respect.

"So I told her to stay put," he continued. "Promised her I’d find whoever it was. And I went in."

Another pause.

"Found you about twenty feet down," he said. "Just... sinking. Not fighting, not trying to swim. Just sinking like a stone. Grabbed you, dragged you back to shore, and spent the next ten minutes trying to get all the ocean water out of your lungs."

He finished with a smirk that was equal parts amused and self-satisfied.

"You’re welcome, by the way. Again. Since you still haven’t said thank you."

I stared at him, a confusing mix of emotions warring inside me.

Gratitude - because he’d saved my life.

Irritation - because his attitude was really starting to grate on my nerves.

And something darker. Something possessive and irrational.

He’d touched Olivia. Talked to her. Been there for her when I couldn’t.

Get it together, I told myself firmly. The man saved your life. Be grateful.

"Thank you," I forced out, trying to inject some genuine warmth into my voice and probably failing. "I mean it. Thank you for saving me."

Ian’s smirk widened slightly, like he could tell exactly how much effort those words had cost me.

"You’re welcome," he said.

"Now, you can leave. I’m awake now, so there’s no need for you to stay."

The words came out before I could stop them, and the moment they did, I knew they were a mistake.