"I'm tired." She cuts me off, turning away. "I'm going to bed."
"It's barely seven o'clock."
"Then I'll stare at the ceiling for three hours until I fall asleep. Either way, I'm done talking for today."
She crosses to the bed and climbs under the covers, still wearing the flannel and leggings, turning her back to the room and to me. Within minutes, her breathing evens out and it sounds like she might actually be asleep.
I stand there in the middle of the cabin, the soup growing cold on the stove, watching her body rise and fall with each breath.
Day one is over.
Six more to go.
27
JADE
The sound of something being hit over and over again wakes me up. For a moment, I'm disoriented, unsure where I am or what I'm hearing. Then the memories flood back, and I remember the cabin and the man who brought me here against my will.
The bed beside me is empty, the sheets cold. Phoenix has been up for a while.
I push myself upright and look toward the window. The sound is coming from outside, a steady thwack followed by the crack of wood giving way. I slide out of bed and pad across the cold floor, pulling the flannel tighter around myself as I peer through the frost-edged glass.
Phoenix is in the small clearing beside the cabin, standing over a chopping block with an axe in his hands. He's surrounded by logs, some already split into neat pieces, others waiting their turn. As I watch, he positions another log on the block, raises the axe over his head, and brings it down in one fluid motion. The wood splinters apart, falling away in two clean halves.
He's taken off his jacket.
He's taken off his shirt.
Despite the gray morning light that suggests the temperature is barely above freezing, Phoenix is working in nothing but a thin undershirt that clings to his back with sweat. The muscles of his shoulders flex and release with each swing of the axe. His arms are corded with effort, veins standing out beneath the skin. When he pauses to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, I can see the definition of his chest through the damp fabric.
I should look away. I should go back to bed and pretend I never saw this, never felt the heat that's currently spreading through my body despite my best efforts to stop it.
Instead, I stand frozen at the window, watching him work.
He moves with an expert’s efficiency. Each swing is precise, controlled and powerful. I think about those hands on me. No one has ever touched me the way Phoenix did.
The thought rises up, and I try to push it away, but I can’t. Before Phoenix, I was only with one guy: David Chriton. Dave was my boyfriend for two years during college and one year after. He was the man I thought I was going to marry. He and I were inseparable but then I found out that he was sleeping with my roommate for six months and lying about everything.
I found out on a Tuesday. I'd come home early from work because I wasn't feeling well, and when I walked into our apartment, I heard sounds coming from the bedroom that didn't make sense at first. My brain couldn't process what I was hearing until I pushed open the door and saw them together.
Dave tried to explain. He swore it didn't mean anything, that he still loved me, that we could work through this if I would just give him a chance to make it right. But how was I supposed to listen to him? Every time I looked at his face, I saw her. Every time I thought about him touching me, I imagined those same hands on her body.
I moved out that same night and crashed on Mom’s couch for three months while I tried to piece my shattered life backtogether. I swore to myself that I would never let another man make a fool of me like that again.
And then Phoenix Crawford appeared with his money and his secrets and his beautiful lies, and somehow I fell for all of it. Again.
But here's the thing I can't reconcile, no matter how hard I try to make sense of it: Phoenix is a liar. He's manipulative and controlling. He brought me to this cabin against my will and he refuses to let me leave. Yet I don't think he would ever cheat on me.
I'm not sure why I'm so certain of this. It might be the possessiveness that creeps into his voice whenever he calls me his, or the single-minded intensity of his focus when he looks at me. When Phoenix's eyes are on me, I feel like I'm the only woman in the entire world. Maybe that certainty is just wishful thinking on my part. But whatever the reason, I believe it. Somewhere deep in my gut, beneath all the anger and fear and confusion, I believe that Phoenix Crawford is many terrible things, but he is not a man who shares what belongs to him.
He positions another log on the block and raises the axe over his head. I watch the muscles in his back tense as he swings down, but something goes wrong. The blade catches a knot in the wood and deflects sideways, glancing off the log at a bad angle.
The axe keeps moving.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. One second he's in full swing, the next he's stumbling backward, the axe falling from his grip, his left arm clutched against his chest.
Even from here, I can see the blood.
