Elena nibbles her lip. “Drake said…”
I raise both eyebrows. “Drake should keep his opinions to himself. The kitchen is around the back.” I wave a hand to the hollowed section behind where she stands. It’s bigger than it looks from here, but she’ll find that out in a moment. “The doors stay locked. Both of them. Everything you need is up here. Explore. Donotleave.” I fix her with a hard stare. “If you do, I’ll find you. That won’t be pretty, sweetness. Coffee is behind you. Twenty steps or less. Make as much mess as you like. The place is yours.”
I wait for her tentative nod, then step back in measured paces. I don't count the steps out in my head. I don’t need to.
I built the house years ago, and I know the dimensions of every single piece of hewn wood in my home. I keep walking as she watches my retreat, frowning. Know the moment that her mouth opens that I’m close. I reach overhead and grab the harness, linking it to my waist. My rifle—my other rifle, not the one I stowed away in the locker downstairs—is at the edge. I grab it a fraction of a second before the freefall takes me.
Her cry is the prettiest thing I’ve heard in a long damn time.
I wonder if she’ll do that for me when I slide inside her after I've killed the man who marked her up and tried to steal the defiance from her.
The man who failed.
I won’t.
My name echoes off the mountains as I taste her panic and disbelief in a single breath in the moment before my feet hit the ground. I unclip the harness and stow it safely in its place until I return for her.
Stay there, sweetness. Don’t you dare leave.
Elena peers down at me, her hands gripping the edge. Her mouth frames my name in a silent cry.
You’ll say it louder later, beautiful.
I promise.
I shoulder my rifle, its weight a comfort as I walk away from her, knowing it might be a while before I return.
Hopefully the ex is a better stalker than she thinks. Hopefully he’s a mean piece of work.
I look forward to finding out what his fear tastes like before I go home and make his wife mine.
CHAPTER FIVE
ELENA
I’ve wondered for three days who is dead: Oliver or Gabriel.
For three days, I’ve wondered why I care. And so for three days, I’ve cooked.
Gabriel’s treehouse is anything but rustic. I crawled to the edge of the platform when he left and stared down at him in the sling, sailing away from me.
Don’t leave. Understand?
Leaving me in a place where I had no idea where anything was, how anything worked, or when or if he would return.
Because I hadn’t told him everything about Oliver. I hadn’t told him about the endless resources at his disposal. The amount of security that surrounds him at all times.
Gabriel never gave me a chance to explain.
Or maybe I never offered.
He left, I screamed. I cried. I made myself coffee.
I explored. I cooked.
The whole treehouse concept seems to work on solar panels. I had no idea how many or where, but they are enough to power my energy consumption and manic food efforts. And the man has a pantry to match my needs. A kitchen stocked with everything I required.
And a bookshelf and bathroom beneath the stars to match.
