Heat blooms between my legs, unwelcome and undeniable. This is insane. I'm responding to the man who's essentially kidnapped me, who's admitted to stalking me. Stockholm Syndrome doesn't usually set in this quickly, does it?
But there's something about him. Something that makes me feel both terrified and somehow…safe. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with a harness. The danger is real, but so is the protection.
"I need to sit down," I mutter, finding my way to his couch. The leather is cool against the back of my thighs as I sink down.
Woodrow follows, not sitting beside me but perching on the coffee table in front of me, knees nearly touching mine. He's inescapable, his presence filling the room, sucking all the oxygen from the air.
"I know this is a lot," he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The position puts his face closer to mine, forces me to meet those intense eyes. "But you need to trust me."
"Why should I?"
"Because I'm all that stands between you and those men."
He reaches out, his large hand enveloping my smaller one. The touch is electric, sending tingles up my arm. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, an oddly tender gesture from such a hard man.
"I won't let anyone hurt you, Priscilla. Not them. Not anyone." The possessiveness in his tone should frighten me. Instead, it sends a flood of warmth through my body, pooling between my thighs in a way I've never experienced before.
What is happening to me? How can I be attracted to this man? He's twice my size, practically a stranger, controlling and intimidating and…and looking at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen.
"How long do I have to stay here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His hand tightens on mine. "Until I'm sure the threat is eliminated. Until I know you're safe."
"And how will you do that?"
Something cold and deadly flickers across his face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. "By any means necessary."
I should be terrified by the implication. Instead, I find myself captivated by the fierce protection in his eyes. No one has ever looked at me that way before—like they'd tear the world apart to keep me from harm.
"You should rest," he says, standing abruptly. "I'll show you to the bedroom. You can have the bed. I'll take the couch."
The sudden shift from intensity to practicality leaves me dizzy. I follow him on unsteady legs down a short hallway to a bedroom that, like the rest of the cabin, is all masculine simplicity. A large bed dominates the space, covered in dark blue bedding that looks soft and inviting.
"Bathroom's through there," he points to a door on the right. "There's a new toothbrush in the drawer, towels in the cabinet."
He's thought of everything. How long has he been planning this?
"Woodrow..." I start, not even sure what I want to say.
He turns at the door, filling the frame with his massive shoulders. "Get some sleep, little girl. You're safe here." His eyes drift over me once more, lingering on my lips, my neck, the curve of my waist. "Safe with me."
He closes the door behind him, but his presence lingers, wrapped around me like an invisible touch. I sink onto the bed, my legs finally giving out as the events of the night catch up to me.
I should be planning my escape. I should be terrified. I should be anything but aroused and confused and—God help me—curiousabout what those large, rough hands would feel like on the rest of my body.
What is happening to me?
four
. . .
Woodrow
I can't fucking sleep.Not with her in my bed, her scent on my sheets, just one thin wall between us. I pace the living room like a caged animal, my cock so hard it hurts, straining against my zipper with every step. Three hours since I showed her to the bedroom. Three hours of pure torture, imagining her soft body stretched out on my mattress. Is she sleeping in her clothes? Did she strip down to her underwear? Is she thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her?Fuck!This wasn't the plan. I was supposed to protect her, keep my distance until I eliminated the threat. But she's under my roof now. In my space. And everything in me is screaming that she's mine to take.
The digital clock on the microwave reads 2:17 AM when I hear it—the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. My entire body goes still, every sense heightened. The bedroom door creaks open. Silence. Then those quiet footsteps, hesitant, making their way down the hall toward the kitchen.
I flatten myself against the wall in the darkened living room, watching as she emerges into the dim light cast by the hood vent over the stove. My breath catches in my throat.
