But I don't because I need to get her home first, need to get her somewhere safe where that bastard can't find her.
Home. Christ, when did I start thinking of the cabin as our home instead of just mine?
When we finally pull up, I kill the engine and just sit there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Ashland?” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “You’re quiet. Are you angry at me for leaving again?”
I sigh. “Angry? I can’t blame you for trying to escape. It was fucked up from day one, and I knew it. I just—I’m trying very hard not to carry you inside and lock every door and window,” I admit roughly. “Trying to remember you chose this. That you're not my prisoner anymore.”
“Then what am I?” she whispers.
I look at her. Really look at her. Dark hair mussed, red lips parted, eyes wide and trusting despite everything I've put her through.
“Mine,” I say. “If you'll have me. This has to be your choice. Keeping you under lock and key won’t work, Bianca. Not unless you choose this.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn't run. Doesn't flinch.
She opens the car door and walks toward the cabin.
I follow her inside, every instinct screaming at me to touch her, claim her, make sure she's real. But I force myself to keep some distance between us. I close thedoor. We don’t make eye contact, and my hands are shaking.
“Sit,” I tell her, gesturing to the couch. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “I'll get the first aid kit.”
She looks down at herself—the scrape on her palm, the tear in her dress, the bruising forming on her wrist. “I'm fine.”
“You're not fine.” I force myself to soften. “Let me see.”
She tries to pull away, but I catch her hand gently. Her palm is torn up, with bits of gravel still embedded in the skin.
“Sit,” I tell her, guiding her to the couch. “Please, lass.”
She sinks down, and I can see the adrenaline wearing off and the shock setting in. Her hands begin to shake.
I disappear into the bathroom and grab the first aid kit I keep stocked. When I return, she's staring at nothing, her arms wrapped around herself.
“Look at me, Bianca.” I kneel in front of her, eye level. “You're safe now. I've got you.”
Her dark-blue eyes focus on mine, and something in her expression cracks. “He was going to?—”
“But he didn't.” I take her injured hand carefully. “And he never will again.”
She watches as I clean the scrape, picking out the gravel,piece by piece. Each time she winces, I pause, waiting for her to nod before continuing.
“This'll sting,” I warn, uncapping the antiseptic.
“I can handle it,” she says shakily, but she doesn't pull away.
I dab at the wound as gently as I can. Her hand is so small in mine, delicate fingers that shouldn't know this kind of violence.
“Why did you let me go?” she asks quietly, not looking up. “When I escaped. You could have come after me. Dragged me back.”
It’s the question I've been dreading.
“Aye, I could've.” I press a butterfly bandage over the worst of it. “But it wouldn't have changed anything, would it? You needed to see for yourself. Needed to know I wasn't lying about him.”
“You had cameras in my room.” She finally meets my eyes. “You were watching me the whole time.”
“I was.”
