After about fifty paces, my ankle is throbbing and I feel a little dizzy. I lean against a large pine tree, catching my breath and trying not to faint.
“Out for a little evening stroll, are we?”
I jump, letting out a surprised yelp and shining my flashlight toward the voice. Maverick leans one shoulder against a nearby tree, his legs crossed causally at the ankle.
“You scared me.”
He ambles toward me, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What was your plan, Mrs. Sinclair? To survive in the woods on a can of beans and a jar of peanut butter until your dear husband came to rescue you?”
I scowl at him. “I was doing just fine, thank you.”
He looks pointedly down at my foot that’s hovering above the ground. “Mmhmm.”
The light from my flashlight slowly fades as I continue to look up at him. He really is quite a large man; he sort of reminds me of a lumberjack, actually. His stubble is growing quickly, hiding his strong jaw, and the flannel he has on over his shirt looks blessedly warm. I shiver as he takes another step toward me until he’s about a foot away.
“You can’t keep me here.”
“Tell me why you want to go back so badly,” he says. I start to respond, but he cuts me off. “A reason that doesn’t involve you being a wife. What else is waiting for you back in New Athens besides attending to your husband’s every whim?”
“I…” Silence fills the air between us, save for an owl that hoots somewhere nearby. When I can’t think of any other reason, I clamp my mouth shut so hard my teeth click together.
“Being Gabriel’s wife is the only thing that matters.”
My eyes must have adjusted to the dark because I see him shake his head. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.
“Look, Mister.” I poke his chest with my index finger, and I’m almost positive it hurts me more than it does him. “You don’t have to understand our way of life, but you should respect it.”
“Respect it?” he sneers. “Which part should I respect, exactly? The part where the Brotherhood stole young girls away from their families? Or the part where women are treated like sex slaves, used only for their bodies? Or maybe the part where abuse is normalized so much that you’re convinced you deserve to be punished for the simplest mistakes?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I argue, but my voice shakes. “Everything Gabriel does is for my own good.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I’ll show you.” He reaches toward the backpack on my shoulders, and I let him slide it off slowly. He adjusts the straps and puts it on his own back before looking down at me with an expression I can’t decipher. “May I?”
“May you what?” I ask, leaning away slightly.
“May I carry you, Mrs. Sinclair?” He sounds impatient.
I scoff. “I don’t need to be carried.”
“Suit yourself.” He takes off walking back through the forest, leaving me to scramble after him.
One step on my bad ankle, and I go down again. This time, I’m unable to hold in the cry of pain that makes its way up my throat.
“That’s what I thought.” Maverick walks back over to me, squatting down and scooping me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I curse myself for needing his assistance at all, stubbornly clinging to his neck as his steps jostle me. I stay silent, inadvertently breathing in his scent and finding that it’s oddly familiar.He smells like the bed I woke up in, I realize.
“Whose bed did I sleep in?”
He grunts in response, which I take as confirmation.
Once again, I’m aware of how much our bodies are touching. The only man I’ve ever touched—bedsides my father when Iwas a child—is Gabriel. “My husband wouldn’t be pleased to know I slept in another man’s bed.”
“Trust me, your husband’s bedroom activities are far more unsavory than your own.”
