He stops walking abruptly, and I feel the tension coil through his entire body. “Lass,” he says, giving my thigh a warning squeeze. “Do I look like the type of man who can't carry a little thing like you?”
I don't realize I'm burying my burning face in his shoulder until I feel the rough fabric of his shirt pressedagainst my cheek. I jerk my head up, but it's too late. I catch the satisfied quirk of his lips tipped upward.
The cabin comes into view far too quickly. No, did I really only get that far? All that running, all that pain, and I barely made it a kilometer from where I started.
He carries me up the steps and through the door. The warmth inside hits me like a wall, and I start shaking uncontrollably.
He sets me down on the couch, and I immediately try to stand, needing to maintain some sense of control. But his hand on my shoulder pushes me back down with gentle, implacable force.
“Stay.”
“I'm not a dog.”
“Then stop acting like one who runs into traffic,” he snaps. He shakes his head and disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a towel and a first aid kit. He kneels in front of me, his expression hard. “Trying to escape into woods you don't know, without proper clothing or supplies. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”
“Anything's better than what's happening to me here.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I realize how childish I sound. Yes, I'm kidnapped, but he's fed me, given me clothes, and kept me warm and safe. It's not like he's abusing me. The thought makes me feel even more confused.
He starts removing my ruined flats, and I wince at even the slightest jostle of my ankle.
“Shit,” he mutters, examining the swelling. “Poor girl. You really hurt yourself, didn't you?”
His movements are efficient and controlled, but I can see the tension in his broad shoulders and the way his jaw keeps clenching.
“'Better than what's happening to you here, eh?” He slides the shoe off my swollen ankle with a care that contradicts the anger laced through his features. “You really think stumbling around in the dark, injured and freezing, is better than being here with me?”
“Yes.” I try to pull my foot away, but his grip tightens—not painful, but firm. “You're holding me prisoner. Of course anything's better than this.”
He doesn't respond immediately, just begins wrapping my ankle with practiced efficiency. His touch is surprisingly gentle despite the anger simmering in those cold gray eyes.
“I told you,” he says finally, securing the bandage before looking up at me. “I took you to keep you safe. He’ll kill you, Bianca.”
I go still. “You're lying.”
He shakes his head, his expression grim. “That man you're so desperate to go back to. He took two women, got what he wanted, then murdered them within a year.”
“That makes no sense.” My voice shakes. “I don't have anything he wants.”
“Don't you?” His eyes bore into mine. “You sure about that, lass?”
“You're lying. You have to be. You're just trying to manipulate me, trying to make me scared so I'll?—”
“So you'll what?” He stands, towering over me, and despite myself, I shrink back into the couch. “Stay here willingly? Trust me?”
“No. I?—”
“I don't need you to do either of those things, lass.” His voice is low, intense. “I need you here. Alive. That's all.”
“I don't believe you.”
He stares at me for a moment, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “Aye, I know. That much is obvious.” There’s something raw in his eyes, like barely contained frustration. My chest tightens for reasons I don’t understand. “Let me show you.”
“Show me what?” My heart is already hammering against my rib cage.
He swipes through his phone, frowning, then turns it toward me. “Sarah Donnelly. Twenty-one years old.”
The photo on the screen makes my blood run cold. A young woman stares back at me with dark eyes… just like mine. Her hair is long and nearly black, falling in waves around a face that’s pale as porcelain. Red lips, delicate features. She looks like… she looks likeme.
