I take a deep breath and remind myself that staying calm is the only way I can stay safe. The only way I can escape.
Okay, alright.
So first off, I need to figure out where the hell I am and who the hell I'm with.
Ashland. I've never heard the name before.
He gestures to my wrists, still bound. “Let me.”
Hope rises in my chest. He's going to allow me this freedom. I flinch instinctively when he reaches for me, but there's nowhere to go. He steps closer, and his big, rough, tattooed fingers work the ties around my wrists with surprising gentleness.
When they fall away, I gasp at the rush of blood back into my hands. Before I can pull away, he catches my wrists, just firm enough to keep me still, his grip possessive in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. His rough, warm thumbs press into my palms, massaging circulation back into my fingers with slow, deliberate circles.
It feels too good. Too intimate.
“There now,” he murmurs, quieter in this small space, and I can feel his breath against my hair. He towers above me, his shoulders dwarfing mine, and the way he's bent over me, focused entirely on my wrists, feels almost like he's shielding me. Protecting me. “That's better, isn't it? Aye, that's a good lass.”
The praise does something to me I don't want to think about right now.
He frowns at the red marks on my wrists, his jaw tightening, and his thumbs continue their maddening circles. “Didn't mean to hurt you. Tried to secure you without leaving marks, but it seems I didn't do a very good job.”
“It's fine,” I say on instinct, and my voice comes out breathier thanI intended.
Why am I trying to make him feel better about this situation?
It’s what I always do, isn’t it?
I yank my hands back the second he loosens his grip and cradle them against my chest. They're tingling, all pins and needles shooting up my arms, but that's not why I pulled away. I don't like how his touch was almost… reverent. How his rough hands on my skin made heat pool low in my belly. How I felt, for just a moment, like I could trust him‚ like I wanted to… lean into him.
I have to remember I'm a prisoner. I have to remember that he took me.
He watches me for a long moment, his gray eyes darkening, and I wonder if he can tell what his touch did to me. If he knows.
I take a look around me. This isn't exactly a dank basement with a concrete floor. No, this is actually kind of… nice.
The cabin smells like pine and wood smoke. The space is open-plan—a kitchen along one wall, all simple wood cabinets and butcher-block counters, and this sitting area with a massive stone fireplace crackling with low flames. There's a dining table between the two spaces, solid and scarred with age. The furniture is sparse but nice. The leather sofa I'm sitting on is worn soft with use, with wool blankets in deep greens and grays draped over the back. Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with books that look well-read.
I can like any place lined with books…
No.I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right.
I’m looking for the layout, not making myself at home.
The stone walls are rough-hewn, the kind that have been here for ages, and exposed beams cross the ceiling overhead.
It's surprisingly cozy for a… prison.
Through the kitchen, I can see a back door and a hallway leading to what must be bedrooms. The windows are small, deep-set in the thick stone walls, showing nothing but darkness and the occasional glimpse of trees pressing close.
There's no television that I can see. No hum of electronics. Just the fire, the books, and the wilderness surrounding us.
Under normal circumstances, it would thrill me. It's a place out of one of my dreamlands, where I would curl up by the fire with my book and a hot cup of tea and read for hours on end.
Only, this is no fairy tale.
My hands won't stop shaking. I've tucked them under my thighs on this soft leather sofa, but it doesn't help. The tremors work their way up my arms, into my shoulders, until my whole body feels like it's vibrating at a frequency only I can hear.
And I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to be calm and in charge, but how can I?
