Where am I?
The last thing I remember is the forest. The desperate, lung-searing run. The cracking ice. The terror. Then… a cabin. A man’s face, bearded and kind, his eyes wide with surprise. And then, nothing. A black, velvety void.
Did he save me? Or did the other one catch me?The one from the party. The one whose voice promised violence.
I force my eyes open. The light is dim, the shadows long. I’m in a bed, a massive one, covered in linens so soft they feel like a cloud against my skin. The room is vast, almost overwhelming, with high, vaulted ceilings and rich, wooden floors. A fire smolders in a large stone fireplace, its warmth a stark contrast to the bone-deep chill I remember.
Panic, cold and sharp, begins to prickle at the edges of my mind. This isn't the kind old man's cabin. This is a place of wealth and power. This is a predator's lair.
I sit up abruptly, a wave of dizziness washing over me, making the room tilt. My ball gown is gone. In its place, I’m wearing a soft, heavy shirt that smells of woodsmoke, leather, and something else—something uniquely masculine and intoxicating. The scent envelops me, a strange and unwelcome comfort.
My hands fly over my body, a frantic, desperate search. I’m still wearing my own underwear. I slide a trembling hand down, checking, probing. There’s no pain, no soreness, no evidence of violation. A wave of relief, so potent it makes me feel weak, washes through me. I’m still intact. But the vulnerability of having been undressed and changed while unconscious makes my skin crawl.
I push the thick comforter away and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body screams in protest. I look down and see the angry red lines of stitches on my forearm, the ugly, mottled bruises blooming on my legs and ribs. Someone tended to my wounds.A doctor?
My gaze is drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one entire wall of the room. They offer a breathtaking, panoramic view of the snow-covered taiga, the trees stretching out for miles under a pale morning sky. It’s beautiful, and it’s a cage. There is nowhere to run.
“You’re awake.”
The voice is a low, gravelly rumble from the doorway. It’s the same voice I heard in the hall. The voice that claimed me as a debt.
My head snaps toward the sound, my heart leaping into my throat. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me. Kaden Prince. He’s even more intimidating in the light of day. The sharp angles of his jaw, the piercing, glacial blue of his eyes, the sheer, raw power that radiates from him in waves. He is a walking storm, and I am trapped in its eye.
I instinctively yank the comforter up to my chin, a pathetic shield against his consuming gaze. My hands tremble.
“You’re safe here,” he says, his voice attempting a softness that doesn’t suit it. He pushes off the doorframe and takes a tentative step into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
“D-don’t come any closer,” I stammer, my voice a pathetic, wavering thing.
He stops. A flicker of something—annoyance? frustration?—crosses his features before being suppressed. “I’m not going to hurt you, Wynter.”
He knows my name. Of course he does. The sound of it on his lips feels like both a caress and a brand.
“Why am I here?” I demand, trying to inject a strength I don’t feel into my voice. “Where is ‘here’?”
“You’re at my compound,” he explains, his tone maddeningly patient. “It’s the safest place you could possibly be.”
Compound?The word sounds military, fortified. A prison. My confusion must be written all over my face, because he elaborates.
“I own this land. Miles of it. The forest, the mountains. The Deadly Seven live here as well.”
The name sends another jolt of fear through me. Emily’s words echo in my mind. He drowns men in frozen rivers. A wave of nausea churns in my stomach, and I fall back against the pillows, the room spinning.
His eyes narrow with something that looks shockingly like concern. In two long strides, he crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and I scramble away, pressing myself against the headboard. His proximity is overwhelming, a physical force that sucks the air from my lungs.
His hand reaches out, and I flinch violently, a strangled gasp escaping my lips.
His hand freezes in mid-air. His jaw clenches, a muscle feathering in his cheek. The concern in his eyes is consumed by a flash of dark, dangerous anger. It’s a look I recognize. It’s the look men get right before they strike. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the blow.
But it doesn’t come.
When I dare to open them again, his expression has changed. It’s shuttered, controlled. He gestures to the nightstand, where a glass of water and two pills now sit.
“Doc said to take these when you wake up,” he says, his voice tight. “For the pain.”
“No,” I say, the word coming out with more bite than I intend. “I’m fine.”
His eyes darken. The air crackles with his barely contained temper. “It wasn’t a request.” His tone is low and absolute, leaving no room for argument.
