"I thought you said you weren't going to make me any five-course meals."
"I'm not," Roman said over his shoulder as he headed toward the cabin. "An omelet is a single course."
Phoebe waited until he was out of sight to allow herself a small smile. Until this moment, she would have sworn that alphas had no sense of humor. Hell, maybe he wasn't even joking—but she didn't care.
The alpha might not understand her. And she certainly didn't get him. But at least they were talking and getting to know each other.
And it was a lot harder to ruthlessly snap the neck of someone you had taken the time to get to know.
Chapter Seven
Days passed, one after the other, and Phoebe settled into a routine. She could never truly relax because she had no idea when her dad and brother would be back to pay her ransom. Sometimes—when a summer storm left everything sodden and steaming, or when Roman was especially short with her, or when she couldn't get to sleep—she allowed herself to wonder whether they were ever coming back at all.
Still, most of the time, she managed to believe they'd find a way. Phoebe had no idea how hard it would be to get one's hands on ten thousand gallons of stolen gasoline, or how one would even go about trying. What she did know was that this would be her family's most challenging hustle ever. They were dead broke and had nothing but their name to trade on.
And the Whitfield name wasn't worth much, not after all the shit Holden and her dad had pulled over the years. It was possible that the task Roman had given them would prove impossible.
But for some reason, that fear didn't fill her with dread, at least not the way it had at the start. Obviously, when one's first impression of a person was that they were trying to wipe out one's immediate family, terror and anguish were a natural reaction. But as time passed—four long days and nights so far—Phoebe's opinion of Roman had begun to change.
And she had concluded that he wasn't really so bad.
At first, she feared she was just falling victim to a twisted case of Stockholm syndrome. After all, her survival instinct had always been strong. She had no reason to believe it wouldn't shift around her senses to accommodate her new reality.
But the more she thought about it, the more she dismissed the idea. Even looking at Roman objectively, she could find no evidence of cruelty or unkindness. Yes, he could be distant—even cold at times. He didn't go out of his way to make her comfortable, that was for sure. But he gave no signs that he was a sadist who enjoyed others' suffering.
The truth was that Roman didn't seem to want to be her warden any more than Phoebe wanted to be his prisoner. The day he'd shared his lunch with her and laughed at her fear of chickens, she thought there was a thaw between them.
But she was mistaken. He'd gone right back to giving her the silent treatment afterward, but things weren't exactly as they had been before.
It was hard to put her finger on exactly what had changed. Roman hadn't made any more meals after that omelet or started any other conversations…but there had been a shift in his energy nonetheless.
He no longer seemed to be upset by Phoebe's mere presence on his property. After that first night, he hadn't complained that she was keeping him awake with her growling stomach or even her breathing. There were no signs of animosity when he came out of his room in the morning or returned after a long day of working outside.
One thing that had caught Phoebe's attention was how frequently he found a reason to come back to the cabin during the day. She doubted it was really necessary for him to check on the clamp holding the shelf he'd repaired only hours earlier, or return for the pliers he'd claimed to have forgotten two days in a row, or any of the other little tasks that required him to come back where he could keep an eye on her.
She'd hoped that after a couple of weeks of her strict compliance with his rules, Roman would trust her a little more. But there always seemed to be a measure of surprise in his expression when she was still there when he returned.
Still, she'd started to look forward to the end of the day when she wouldn't be alone in the cabin.
It was true her ears were always open, attuned to the possibility of a big rig engine rumbling its way up Roman's drive, but she was no longer desperate for its arrival.
Compared to the constant clamor of the house she shared with her family, the alpha's land was peaceful, his home serene and quiet. Roman actually picked up after himself and made his own meals, so keeping the place clean and in good repair took less time than looking after her father and brother's needs. Phoebe did her best to keep busy, doing whatever little odd jobs she could find around the cabin, but there was never anyone hollering for her attention or inventing emergencies for her to address or leaving catastrophic messes she had to sweep up.
She'd even discovered a new, foolproof way to fall asleep each night: she simply let her eyes drift shut while pretending that she was on vacation in a rustic mountain lodge.
Then there were the spectacular views—and not just landscapes.
Sure, the sunset over the distant mountain that changed the whole sky from serene blue to brilliant gold to a deep purple was breathtaking, but Phoebe's favorite view was much closer to home.
After she'd been there a week, Phoebe noticed that Roman had a habit of chopping the evening's firewood first thing in the morning before venturing out on his land for the day's tasks. Apparently, it was hot work because he also had a habit of peeling off his shirt about halfway through, gifting Phoebe with the jaw-dropping sight of his massive torso glistening with sweat as he swung an ax above his head.
Unfortunately, the small side window by the kitchen didn't give her the best sightline. But the chicken coop, on the other hand…well, that was a perfect vantage point to see every bit of him.
So Phoebe adopted the habit of starting every morning by having her hands ruthlessly pecked by protective hens.
On the bright side, her fear of chickens was gone. Hell, now she'd be willing to stand in the middle of an illegal cockfight if it meant being able to appreciate the sight of Roman's muscular back and ridged abs.
Soon the thought of his gorgeous body was one of the few things getting her through the day. After all, how bad could her situation be if she could get lost daily in the image of his bulging biceps? Not to mention the solid mass of his deltoids, or all that power rippling through his triceps.
Whew. Phoebe pulled her hand back from a freshly laid egg and wiped her brow with her sleeve. Now she was the one who was sweating.
Her mouth had gone dry again, so she licked her lips before reaching back in for the egg. The worst part was she didn't feel even a shred of shame at her attraction. After all, who was around to blame her? And it wasn't as if she wanted to stare. She just couldn't help it. Roman was one hell of a male specimen. So big…so strong…so damned sexy.
Phoebe knew it wasn't wise to lust after the alpha holding her captive. But since there was absolutely zero chance of her acting on it, enjoying the view seemed harmless enough.
It would be a whole different story if she did try to fulfill her fantasies.
Roman was a good foot and a half taller than most men she knew and twice as broad. She didn't want to even think of how much bigger his cock would be.
Okay…maybe she did want to think about it, at least a little. Though given how easily the man could splinter a tree trunk as big around as the tires on a big rig, Phoebe was pretty sure that a single thrust from those hips of his would split her in two.
But what a way to go…
"Ow!"
Phoebe was jerked back from imagining the world's most blissful death when the hen pecked her hand again. Harder this time.
Shit—Roman jerked his head around to see what was wrong. Phoebe blushed furiously, knowing how close she'd come to being caught staring.
"Just a little prick!" she said without thinking. "I'm fine!"
Roman cast her a suspicious frown before returning to his task.
"You'll keep my
secret, won't you, Mrs. Featherbottom?" Phoebe whispered to the chicken who had fluttered down and was now busy pecking away at her feet.
The rhythmic sound of the ax stopped instantly. "You're naming the chickens now?"
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How had Roman heard that? She'd barely even breathed the words, but somehow, like magic, he'd heard every one.
"Um…yeah," Phoebe said, trying to sound casual and failing. When he started walking over to the wire fence, her mortified panic sent her heartbeat into overdrive.
"So, what are you calling them?"
Phoebe swallowed, looking for clues in Roman's inscrutable gaze and, as usual, finding none. "There's Eggy Pop, and Clucky Brewster, and Gregory Peck, and—"
"And what secrets are they keeping for you?"
Phoebe sighed, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. Damn it to hell—she'd been hoping he hadn't heard that part.
"Please don't ask me that," she mumbled.
Roman didn't respond immediately, but there was a shift in his energy, sharpening his gaze. If Phoebe believed in auras, she would say his had become brighter and more intense. Somehow, she knew before he opened his mouth that there wasn't going to be any way around this.
"Why?"
"Because…look, the answer is really embarrassing, and I promised as part of our deal that I wouldn't lie."
Phoebe was hoping that the alpha had as little enthusiasm for hearing her secrets as she had for sharing them, but he shook his head sternly, glowering.
"Lies of omission are still lies, Phoebe. Now I need to know the truth. What are you hiding from me?"
"I'm not hiding anything," she insisted, her voice breaking with the effort of keeping her emotions in order. It would be one thing if she were only afraid and disgusted with herself. Unfortunately, the more riled up Roman got, the more Phoebe did too—in ways she wasn't eager to share. "It's just that I, um…"
He was standing only a few feet away, separated from her only by some flimsy chicken wire that he could probably rip into pieces with one hand. She could almost feel the power coiled inside his muscles, as if his proximity shifted the very air she was breathing.
The rest of the sentence died in her throat.
"Last chance, Phoebe," Roman warned, in a voice so low and threatening it left no doubt in her mind that he'd drag the truth out of her himself if she didn't offer it up.
For a moment, she was seized by a vision of him wrapping his hands around her shoulders and pinning her against the trunk of the redwood next to the coop, his mouth inches from hers as he told her in detail what happened to uncooperative prisoners at his mercy.
Then that image shifted to her legs wrapped around him and her head thrown back as he plunged inside her.
"No!" Phoebe gave herself a mental slap across the face. This wasn't some sexy fantasy role-playing—that was a goddamn real-life alpha on the other side of the fence, the same one who had threatened to kill her family. Who had refused to say that he wouldn't kill her, merely that he would unless he 'had to'.
"I mean—yes," she corrected herself. "But you're not going to like it, and it's going to make everything weird between us. My secret is that I come out here every morning because I like to watch you chop wood, especially when you take your shirt off. I have absolutely zero intention of acting on this attraction. It just makes my day a little more pleasant."
There—it was out, for better or worse. Phoebe felt fractionally better for having said it. She stood up all the way and found enough defiance to look him straight in the eye.
"That's the truth. Happy now?"
Chapter Eight
No, Roman wasn't happy—and it didn't help that he was at least partly to blame for his own misery.
Roman wasn't dumb, far from it. His mother had always said he could read people better than anyone else in the family, and that was before he'd even acquired the intensely acute alpha senses that could detect things no beta could ever hope to.
From the first spark of curiosity in Phoebe's appraisal of him, he'd known that there were deeper stirrings underneath, an erotic attraction brewing before it ever took shape in desire or fantasy. He'd sensed her straining to watch him from the kitchen window, her interest blooming into a fast-multiplying lust, gilding her scent with a verdant, bright longing. And he sure as hell hadn't been surprised when she'd started timing her visits to the henhouse to coincide with his wood chopping.
He'd known Phoebe wanted a front-row seat to the show all along. If Roman was being honest with himself, he'd deliberately fed those flames—peeling off his shirt when the air was still cool, flexing a little harder than he needed to, positioning himself so she could watch him from the corner of the coop.
I like to watch you.
That's why he'd done it—for the satisfaction of knowing the effect she had on her. What Roman hadn't bargained for was the effect she had on him.
It was one thing to put on a harmless little show, especially because she'd done exactly as she said and kept her attraction well contained. Other than sneaking a look now and again, she'd done nothing to violate the terms of their arrangement, never forgetting that she was a hostage, not a guest, and certainly not a lover. If he hadn't forced her to admit her secret, she would never have acknowledged it, not to him or anyone else.
Roman was second-guessing himself now as their standoff stretched on.
If he'd just kept his mouth shut, they could have continued the morning ritual as long as she was here, both of them getting something out of it—her a little thrill and him another image to add to the late-night spank bank. Instead, he'd used a sledgehammer to do the job of a precision torque wrench, forcing instead of teasing, ruining a good thing.
But the truth was that Roman hadn't been able to resist. Knowing what Phoebe was feeling was one thing, but he wanted to hear her say it in her own sand-and-honey voice, to see those green eyes intensify when she admitted to her desire.
The only thing he hadn't been prepared for was the intensity of the reaction it sparked in him.
I like to watch you.
Roman stifled a groan. He tightened his hands into hard fists, distracting himself with the pain of digging his nails into the flesh of his palms.
Goddamn, it would be so easy to let her do more than just watch. She wouldn't need much encouragement—at least, that's what his feverish imagination was telling him.
If he took her hand, if he pressed it against his chest, let her feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his pounding heartbeat—then her body would catch fire, the flames leaping as high in her as they were in him.
But Roman knew himself well enough to know that a single touch like that would never be enough. A taste would never satisfy. He'd only want more.
Maybe he'd inherited that from his family—for all their philanthropy, no Fontana ever suffered from want. Their home was furnished with the best of everything, from copper gutters imported from Italy to linens with a thread count so high you could barely see the weave to the silver tea service that had been in the family for almost two centuries. Roman had no need for that stuff, but the few possessions he owned were the best to be had.
Roman saw no way that Phoebe—the hostage that her family had so carelessly given up—could be improved. She was perfect in his eyes.
Roman had never considered himself to be a man driven by carnal hunger, but then again, he'd never met a woman like this one, who lit every fuse on every one of his primal urges. If he ever touched Phoebe, Roman knew he wouldn't be content until he tasted her…and after that, nothing would satisfy him until he filled her completely, until she was screaming his name so loudly it sent every creature in the valley running. He'd devote himself to satisfying her every desire, her every need…even those she didn't know about yet.
Roman's heart beat faster at the thought. His imagination filled in the details—Phoebe lying naked on the carpet of moss near the edge of the creek, her curls fanned out around her face, her back arched, and her m
uscles tensed. Her fingers gripping his shoulders as she clung to him while pleasure rocked her body down to the core.
Fuck.
What the hell was he thinking? Fucking the hostage was a bad idea. A really bad idea. If Roman didn't pull himself together, he was in danger of losing control.
But pushing Phoebe out of his mind was easier said than done. Somehow, she'd gotten lodged in there deep.
It didn't matter that she was glaring at him, her eyes flinty and dangerous, making it clear she would never forgive him for demanding such an intimate truth out of her. He wanted to erase her fury with a kiss so deep and hot that they both came up gasping for air, and then make every last lascivious fantasy running through his head a reality. He wanted to dive so deep inside Phoebe that he never came out again.
His little prisoner had done the right thing—told the truth and committed herself to not acting on her sexual impulses. But Roman didn't think he could make the same promise. Every day since her arrival, he'd fought the urge to pick her up in his arms and carry her off to his bed, and it was becoming harder and harder to fight.
Totally fucking unbelievably inconvenient—that's what this was.
Damn the Whitfields for their talent for trouble. If they'd just kept to the deal, Roman's libido could have just kept hibernating, staying dormant, letting him go about his life.
And why did it have to be her—a helpless hostage, a fucking Whitfield who didn't want to be here, who he'd promised not to touch?
No.
Roman couldn't have Phoebe—no matter how much she wanted or he craved it.
Still, that didn't mean they both needed to suffer. And he was in charge here, after all.
Roman kept his gaze steady on hers as he backed away toward the woodpile.
"If you like to watch," he said as casually as he could, "then watch."
Then he wrenched the ax free from the stump with one mighty heave and got back to work.
Splinters flew, and the ax blows echoed through the land as he steadied one log after another on the stump and split them into uniform pieces sized for the stove. He'd done this thousands of times before, so often that he usually gave it no thought and simply let his mind wander.
Roman: The Boundarylands Omegaverse: M/F Alpha Omega Romance Page 6