I felt...undone.
I should’ve known then that it was the beginning of the end.
I should’ve guessed how badly she would ruin me.
But all I could manage was dumbstruck desire.
I stared into the eyes of a worthy opponent.
I stared at Nila Weaver with awe.
Chapter Seven
Nila
CLIMBING TO MY wobbly feet, I ignored Jethro and beelined straight for the saddlebag. Inside, I found my running shorts, t-shirt, jumper, and summer sandals.
The instinct to turn around and make sure I was permitted to dress came sharp and strong. How had he worked his wizardry to make me second-guess my right to dress?
I would put a stop to that nonsense that very instant.
Slipping into the clothing, I winced as the shoes brushed against cuts and punctures. The painkillers he’d given me hadn’t worked their magic just yet.
The second I was dressed, I snagged a waxpaper-wrapped sandwich from the almost empty bag.
Striding away a little, I inhaled the sandwich like an urchin or homeless vagabond. Food. Glorious food. I’d never been so grateful for something as simple as a sandwich before.
It tasted unbelievably good. Roast chicken, crisp salad, and creamy mayo on fresh white bread. I wanted another. Hell, I wanted ten.
“Here.” Something landed by my feet. I ducked to pick it up, throwing a look over my shoulder. Jethro had stood and buckled his trousers. He ran a hand through his silvery hair, watching me with a livid expression.
I looked at the green apple in my hand then inhaled that, too. I didn’t care what I looked like. My body demanded I eat. I obliged as fast as humanly possible.
But no matter what I chewed, all I could taste was Jethro.
The apple core was the only thing left of my piranha-speed eating.It was gone too quickly and still I was starving.
Jethro prowled toward me.
My muscles moved, retreating from the anger wisping off him.
Don’t move away. It’s a weakness.
Stand up to him. Make him see you.
Tensing my muscles, I locked my knees. I’d won. If I backed down now, everything I had done would be for nothing.
Here and now—with no other Hawks or Weavers—it was just us; us in this game where the rules were unknown. The only way to win was to maintain the ground I’d gained.
If he wanted to control me with violence and softly spoken curses, fine. Then I would control him with sex.
The one thing I knew nothing about, but seemed to have a great aptitude for.
My lips twisted at the irony. I’d gone from untouched designer to depraved prisoner.
I only did it to prove a point—to extend my life by however long possible.
Liar. You’re wet.
