Her breath begins to hitch. Her chest heaves. It’s not a fight anymore. It’s a panic attack.
I am not prepared for. I can handle defiance, anger, even hatred. This raw, unraveling terror is a language I don’t speak.
“Wynter. Breathe.” The command is sharp, an order. It doesn’t work. She curls into a ball, trying to disappear.
“Look at me,” I say, more forcefully. I reach out, my hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at me. The contact is an electric shock to us both. Her eyes fly open, wide and wild with a fear so pure it’s like looking into the heart of a storm.
“Don’t make me tie you to this bed and force them down your throat,” I warn, the words a low growl. It’s a threat born of my own rising panic, a desperate attempt to regain control.
But my threat is a whisper against the hurricane of her terror. I see the fight is not with me. It’s with the ghosts of every personwho has ever hurt her. My grip on her face softens, my thumb instinctively brushing away a tear that spills onto her cheek. The gesture is foreign to my own hands.
“I know you’re scared,” I murmur, my voice dropping, trying to find a tone that soothes instead of commands. “But I promise you, no one will ever hurt you again. Not like she did. You just have to trust me.”
She stares at me, her chest still rising and falling in ragged, shallow gasps. The battle in her eyes is epic. She is drowning, and I, her captor, am offering her a lifeline. The irony is not lost on me.
Slowly, painstakingly, her breathing begins to even out. The wildness in her eyes recedes, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. She is spent.
I release her face and pick up the pills and the glass of water again. I don’t issue a command this time. I simply hold them out.
She watches my hand for a long moment, then her gaze lifts to mine. Her eyes are full of a broken, weary defiance. But she opens her mouth.
I place the pills on her tongue, my fingers brushing her soft, warm lips. I bring the glass to her mouth, holding it steady as she drinks. When she’s done, she sticks her tongue out, a flash of childish rebellion that makes my lips twitch.
I take the glass from her, my knuckles brushing hers. The contact is brief, but it’s enough.
“That’s my good girl,” I say, the words a low growl. It’s praise, but it’s also a brand. A declaration. She has obeyed. This is the first step.
She scoffs, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her eyes flashing with a spark of their earlier fire. “I’m not your girl,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
But I hear it. Oh, I hear it. And the challenge in her words is more exciting than any easy submission could ever be. I will enjoy breaking her of that notion. I will enjoy it very much.
Eight
Wynter
Heleaves.
The door closes with a soft, definitive click, and the sound echoes the slamming shut of a cage door. I’m left alone in thevast, silent room, my body trembling with the aftershocks of his presence. My cheek still tingles where his thumb brushed away my tear, a phantom touch that feels both like a burn and a balm.
I stare at the spot where he sat, the mattress still indented with his weight. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He is a monster. He threatened me, cornered me, forced me to obey him. And yet… he didn’t strike me. When I flinched, expecting the blow that always follows a person’s anger, it never came. Instead, his anger seemed to turn outward, directed at a ghost I couldn’t see.
“No one will ever hurt you again. Not like she did.”
How does he know? How could he possibly know about Evilin?The thought that my private hell was visible to him, a stranger, is a profound and terrifying violation. He saw the bruises, the fear. He looked at me and didn’t just see a girl; he saw a victim. And it made him angry.
The anger, I understand. The gentleness, I do not. It’s a weapon I don’t know how to defend against.
Slowly, the pills begin their work. The sharp edges of pain from my cuts and bruises soften, melting into a dull, manageable ache. My head clears. The frantic, spiraling panic recedes, leaving behind a cold, hard dread. I need to think. I need a plan.
I push myself out of the massive bed, my bare feet sinking into a thick, plush rug. The shirt I’m wearing falls to my mid-thigh. It’s his. The scent of woodsmoke and something musky, uniquely him, clings to the fabric. I should be repulsed, should want to tear it off my body. Instead, I find myself pulling the collar closer, inhaling the scent. It’s the smell of power, of danger, and my body’s traitorous response is a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
I take a moment to survey my prison. The room is a testament to him. It’s huge and masculine. The furniture is all dark wood and clean lines. There are no photographs, no clutter, nopersonal touches to soften the space. It’s the room of a man who values control above all else. A fortress.
My eyes are drawn back to the wall of windows. I walk toward them, my steps unsteady. Standing before the vast expanse of glass, I feel the sheer scale of my isolation as a physical blow. An endless sea of snow-covered pines stretches to the horizon, where jagged, blue-tinted mountains rise. It’s brutally, breathtakingly beautiful. And there is no sign of civilization. No roads, no lights, no other houses. Just wilderness.
There will be no running. There is nowhere to run to.
The door opens again, and I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. It’s him. He carries a tray laden with food, the aroma of coffee and bacon making my stomach twist with a hunger I hadn't realized I felt.
