He releases me, and the absence of his touch is as shocking as its presence. I remain standing there, staring at my own reflection, but all I can see is him. All I can feel is the ghost of his hands on my skin.
He thinks he has won. He thinks he has tamed me. But as I stare into my own wide, haunted eyes in the mirror, I know the truth. He hasn't extinguished the fire. He has simply given it a new, more dangerous fuel. And when it finally explodes, it will consume us both.
Thirty Five
Wynter
Thepastfewdayshave been a blur of suffocating comfort. Kaden has been a ghost, a presence I feel more than see. He leaves me gifts—a rare book of botanicalillustrations, a silk scarf the color of a twilight sky, a plate of my favorite pastries left on the table while I sleep. They are not peace offerings. They are chains, each one a silken, insidious link meant to bind me to him through comfort rather than fear.
He thinks his new strategy is working. He thinks by giving me space, by surrounding me with beauty, he is taming me. And I have let him believe it. I have sketched the flowers in the conservatory. I have read the books. I have eaten the food. I have played the part of the docile, slowly adapting captive.
But every moment of feigned compliance has been a moment of planning. Every walk through the conservatory has been a reconnaissance mission. Every meal has been a gathering of strength.
The opportunity comes on the fourth day. A storm, brutal even by Alaskan standards, descends upon the compound. The wind howls like a hungry wolf, and the snow falls in a thick, blinding sheet. The power flickers once, twice, then a third time, and the main lights go out, replaced by the dim, sterile glow of the emergency backup system.
This is it.
I know from my observations that the security system, while formidable, is primarily electronic. The magnetic locks, the motion sensors, the cameras—they are all dependent on a stable power source. A storm like this, combined with a power surge, is the chaos I have been praying for.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and adrenaline. I move quickly, my plan, rehearsed a thousand times in my mind, clicking into place. I pull on the warmest clothes from the closet, black wool trousers, multiple layers of cashmere, and a thick, hooded parka he provided. I stuff my pockets with high-energy food from the breakfast trays I’ve been hoarding, nuts, dried fruit, a small block of cheese.
I slip out of the suite. The main corridors, usually bright and intimidating, are now cast in an eerie, shadowy twilight. The emergency lights are sparse, creating long, deep pools of darkness. It’s a landscape of fear, but for me, it is a landscape of opportunity.
I don’t head for the main entrance. That would be suicide. My target is a service exit I spotted on my first day, a small, unassuming door at the end of a utility corridor near the kitchens. It’s likely still locked, but it’s a physical lock, not an electronic one. A lock that can be broken.
The compound is strangely quiet. The staff are likely dealing with the power outage, their attention diverted. I move like a wraith, sticking to the shadows, my ears straining for any sound of approach.
I find the corridor. At the far end is the door, a simple, metal-clad rectangle. Beside it is a fire axe, encased in glass. For emergency use only. This is my emergency.
My hands are shaking, but my resolve is like iron. I smash the glass with the heel of a heavy boot I took from the closet. The sound is shockingly loud in the silence, but it’s masked by the roar of the wind outside. I pull out the axe. It’s heavy, unwieldy, but it feels like an extension of my own desperate will.
I swing. The first blow glances off the lock, sending a shower of sparks into the dim light. I swing again, and again, my arms screaming with the effort, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I am no longer Wynter Blanc, the broken princess. I am a desperate animal, chewing through the bars of my cage.
With a final, desperate swing, the lock breaks. The door groans open a few inches. A blast of wind and snow hits me, stealing my breath, a brutal, glorious taste of freedom.
I don’t hesitate. I slip through the opening and into the blizzard.
The world is a vortex of white. The wind is a physical force, shoving me, trying to tear the breath from my lungs. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. It’s perfect. He can’t see me either.
I know from my view from the window that the compound is surrounded by a high fence, but there is a gate, a service entrance for supply trucks, about a quarter-mile to the east. That is my only chance.
I pull the hood of the parka low over my face and begin to run. The snow is deep, reaching my knees, each step a monumental effort. The cold is a living thing, seeping through my clothes, biting at my exposed skin. But it is the cold of freedom.
I am running. I am actually running. I am free.
I don’t know how long I run.Minutes? An hour?Time has no meaning in the white chaos. But then, through the swirling snow, I see it. The dark, solid line of the fence. And the gate.
Tears of triumph freeze on my cheeks. I am almost there.
And then, a sound cuts through the howl of the wind. A sound that freezes the blood in my veins.
A roar. Not of an animal. But of an engine.
A pair of headlights slices through the blizzard, pinning me in their glare. A snowmobile, sleek and black as death, hurtles toward me. And the figure driving it is unmistakable.
Kaden.
He is dressed in black, a predator in his natural element. He brings the machine to a halt a few yards away, the engine idling with a low, menacing growl. He dismounts, his movements fluid and economical. He doesn't shout. He doesn't rush. He simply stands there, a dark, immovable object in the swirling white.
