Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances

by Nicole Morgan

  Instead, he was much more interested in finding out the color of her eyes.

  He liked eyes.

  Apparently, they were the window to the soul, and although he wasn’t convinced that the soul was a real thing, he did believe that the eyes were the key to what people felt. While most people could school their features to convey the emotion they chose, the eyes were harder to control. If you looked—really looked—then you could learn a lot about a person by what went on behind their eyes.

  Holding her head still with one hand, with his other he pried up her eyelid to reveal her irises. They were green. How interesting. Of his two dozen guests, he’d never had one with green eyes before. Brown he’d had plenty, and a few blues, one or two hazel, but never this fantastic shade of bright emerald green.

  Guest number twenty-five was his favorite already.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He didn't know she was awake, and Paisley wanted to keep it that way.

  She needed to figure out a plan.

  Which would be much easier if he hadn’t shackled her wrists to chains hanging from the ceiling. Even if she wanted to keep herself upright, she wasn't sure she could. Right now she was slumped forward, putting pressure on her injured shoulder. Her feet only just reached the floor, so once she got her strength back and he knew she was awake, she was going to have to balance on her tiptoes, which meant that the pressure on her bad shoulder wasn't easing any time soon.

  That meant she was going to have to find a way to compartmentalize the pain so she could concentrate. She’d been hurt before; it came with horse riding. Everyone who rode for any length of time had gotten thrown off a horse at least once. But all of those times, she’d been able to take painkillers. She didn't have a very high pain threshold, so pain pills were always a go to when she was hurt, but right now they were a luxury she didn't have.

  She would just have to do her best to block it out.

  Focus on something else.

  The room was warm, so they were definitely inside. In fact, it had been the warmth that had awakened her in the first place. She had become so accustomed to being cold that the shock of heat had startled her. They had come down a flight of stairs—that probably meant they were in a basement. That he already had chains in his ceiling meant that he’d done this before. Talking her way out of this didn't seem likely. She could wait until he unlocked the metal cuffs and make a run for it, assuming he was going to take the metal cuffs off at some point, but that seemed about her only option at this point.

  He was watching her.

  She could feel his eyes on her.

  The temptation to crack her eyelids just a teensy bit was strong, but she resisted. Paisley knew she couldn’t play possum forever, but she just needed a little more time to get her wits together.

  Stephen was looking for her.

  She just had to hold on to that.

  He was a cop; he’d figure out that something had happened to her, that she needed help. He’d figure out where she was being held. He’d come.

  He would come.

  As long as she kept believing that, then she probably wouldn’t fall apart.

  Probably.

  The man watching her moved closer.

  He moved silently, but she could feel his presence right beside her.

  It took every ounce of her willpower not to let her breathing accelerate, and her body shudder in revulsion.

  What was he going to do to her?

  She didn't have to wait long to find out.

  There was a sharp prick on her cheek. Then the sharp thing cut a shallow line in her skin.

  If he was trying to see if she was awake, that wasn't enough to prod her from her pretense at unconsciousness. She was already in excruciating pain—a little more was nothing. It all just melded into one big mass that hovered above her and threatened to crush her.

  Paisley braced for another cut, presumably a deeper one this time, but one didn't come. Instead, she felt him walk around her slowly, as though he were examining her and categorizing everything that he saw to file away and store for use at a later time.

  She wished she could examine him and file away everything she saw.

  She was tempted to take a peek. Surely, just one little one couldn’t hurt. Unless he was directly in front of her, he probably wouldn’t even notice.

  No.

  Stick with the plan.

  He was going to know she was awake soon enough anyway. She should focus on buying herself as much time as she could because she had a feeling that once he knew she was conscious, he was going to do a whole lot more than put a shallow cut on her cheek.

  Without warning, a hand grabbed her right breast and squeezed firmly.

  With a surprised squawk, her eyes popped open, and she struggled to get her feet beneath her so she could get away from this horrible man and his disgusting touch. It took her several tries to get on her feet. She kept losing her balance and falling forward, making pain zigzag up and down her arms and bounce back and forth between her shoulder blades.

  When she finally managed to balance herself on the balls of her feet, she found the man standing in front of her with a smug smirk on his face.

  “I wondered how long you could keep up the charade of being unconscious. I must admit, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

  Now that she could get a look at him, the man was nothing like she had pictured. She imagined a huge young man with enormous muscles—instead, he was an older man with a head of thinning white hair and eyes that were inquisitive and yet malevolent at the same time.

  “You were the man in the road,” she said, trying to make her voice strong and not betray the fear she felt.

  “I was. I thought you got away, but it seems fate wants us to spend some time together.”

  At his words, her gaze left the man and took in the rest of her surroundings.

  There was a single chair about three feet away facing her direction and a table against one wall that appeared to be filled with knives and scissors and pliers, and an assortment of other things that she was sure she didn't want to know what he planned to do with.

  “Wh-what are you going to do to me?” Paisley asked.

  “Oh.” Disappointment clouded his brown eyes. “You're one of those.”

  Panic stuttered in her heart. She’d disappointed him. The disappointment was no doubt going to lead to bad things. “I-I'm sorry,” she said, hoping she could make things right before he hurt her.

  The smile he gave her wasn't pleasant. “You will be.”

  He walked over to the table and began to peruse his torture tools. Paisley couldn’t hold back her tears, they flowed freely down her cheeks, and her body began to shake in earnest.

  Why had she left Stephen’s cabin?

  He hadn’t been anything but kind and gentle to her, and she had repaid him by thinking the worst and running away. There had to be a logical explanation for the bloody jewelry; there had to be. She should have trusted him, trusted herself and what she felt. If she had, she would be safe and sound this second.

  The man picked up something, but before she could see what it was, a light above the door started flashing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stephen trudged through the snow.

  He was beginning to tire, and he was pretty sure that he could no longer find his way back to his cabin.

  Living out here in the middle of the woods, outside of the hubbub of the city, had been his idea and one that Carol hadn’t been too keen on. They had argued about it frequently. Carol wanted to live in the middle of the city where she could go shopping whenever she wanted and where bars and restaurants were only a couple of minutes’ walk away. He had wanted the peace and quiet and tranquillity that came with being surrounded by nature and not large concrete buildings.

  In the end, they had settled on the cabin because it was only a thirty-minute drive “to be back in civilization” as Carol put it so he could get to work easily, and she was close enoug
h to spend her days hanging out with her friends. When they’d broken up, he had feared that Carol would fight him on ownership of the cabin just on principle, but she hadn’t. She'd taken her name off the title without any fuss.

  Right now, he wished he’d listened to her, and he was in the middle of the city, surrounded by people, where help was only minutes away.

  He’d give up the freedoms of feeling like he was part of nature if it meant that Paisley was safe.

  Stephen was pretty sure he was going to fail her.

  He’d been searching for a good thirty minutes now, and that was on top of the twenty minutes head start she’d had. She couldn’t survive that long out here. She was hurt; she wasn't dressed for the cold; she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going; she’d get lost, eventually pass out, and die of hypothermia in her sleep. He wasn't hurt, and he’d dressed for the cold in a beanie, gloves, scarf, and insulated coat, and he was still freezing. He had spent hours jogging and walking the woods around here, and he still had no idea where he was.

  Daylight was coming; hopefully, that would improve visibility some.

  Although he feared it would come too late.

  Paisley’s only hope was that she had somehow stumbled upon a car or a house and someone had taken pity on her and let her in.

  Something caught his attention in the distance.

  A light.

  Stephen picked up his speed to a slow jog as he made his way toward it, feeling very much like a damaged ship being led to salvation by a lighthouse.

  If Paisley had come this way, then she might have seen the light too. She could be in there, safe, alive, and … still terrified of him.

  He slowed his pace.

  Should he go in there?

  There were no guarantees she had come this way. Yes, he’d found her bracelet, but she could have gone in any direction from there. He’d been sure he was making better time than she was, and he’d called out her name repeatedly but he’d never gotten an answer.

  She could be anywhere.

  Or she could be inside this cabin.

  He had to go in. He had to know if she was safe, because if she wasn't, then he wasn't leaving these woods until he found her. Alive or dead.

  As soon as he stepped onto the porch, some of the wind and snow stopped assaulting him, and he sighed in relief. He hammered on the door, not caring that it was early in the morning and whoever was inside was likely sleeping. When the door wasn't immediately answered he rung the doorbell, more times were necessary but he needed to know if Paisley was here.

  The wait for the door to open seemed like an eternity.

  But eventually, it edged open and more light spilled out. An older man who appeared to be in his late fifties stood there. The man was fully dressed, so he apparently hadn’t been sleeping. A fire raged in the fireplace, and a jigsaw puzzle was set out on the coffee table in front of it—maybe the man had insomnia and had been working on the puzzle.

  “Come in, come in, boy,” the man said, taking his arm and pulling him inside. “You must be frozen half to death. Go sit in front of the fire, and I’ll get you a hot drink. What were you doing out in the storm? Did your car break down? Are you lost? I'm Raymond, by the way.”

  The man slammed the door behind them and hurried off to the kitchen, barely pausing to give him time to answer any of the questions, let alone ask about Paisley.

  “I was looking for a woman,” Stephen said.

  “A woman?” Raymond peered at him from the kitchen, which was separated from the living area by a breakfast bar and cabinets above it.

  “It’s a long story, but she was hurt. Has anyone come to your door?” Stephen had to resist the urge to just go running through the cabin in search of Paisley. That kind of thing was frowned upon, it wasn't polite, but right now he didn't care about polite and had to metaphorically nail himself to the floor to prevent himself from doing it.

  “No, haven't seen anyone. Haven't heard anyone either. What was she doing out in a storm like this if she’s hurt?” Raymond looked perplexed.

  “Like I said, it’s a long story.” And one that he didn't have time to explain. If Paisley wasn't here, then there was no need for him to stay. The small break from the relentless wind and snow had been enough to rejuvenate him, and he was ready to get back out there and keep searching.

  “Son, you can't go back out there,” Raymond said when he moved toward the door.

  “I have to. I have to find her.”

  “You’ll freeze to death, and if she’s hurt like you say, then it might already be too late.”

  It wasn't like he didn't know that already. It was all he had been thinking about as he’d fought his way through the blizzard but hearing someone else say it made it seem even more real.

  Raymond was right.

  It might already be too late.

  He knew that, but he couldn’t stop.

  Paisley was counting on him.

  If he gave up on her, she would die, but as long as there was hope, he would keep searching.

  “If she does turn up here, please look after her, and as soon as the phone lines are working again, call 911 and ask them to contact me as well as send help. My name is Detective Stephen Evans, badge number 1734.”

  “Are you sure I can't convince you to stay?”

  “I'm sure.”

  Stephen turned back to the door and was about to open it and step out into the frozen version of hell when he saw something lying on the floor by the door.

  A shoe.

  A shoe that looked very much like the brown ankle boots Paisley had been wearing with her jeans and yellow sweater.

  He should know, he’d spent enough hours staring at her as she’d slept. He’d even thought that he should have removed her shoes before helping her lie down and debated trying to take them off while she slept. In the end, he hadn’t because she had needed the rest and he hadn’t wanted to disturb her.

  “Sir, whose boot—?”

  Stephen got no further than that.

  Something slammed into the back of his head, and the world exploded into fiery pain and then darkness.

  Chapter Twenty

  She had been screaming at the top of her lungs, but no one came.

  Paisley knew that could only mean one of three things. One, that the room she was in was soundproof. Two, that whoever had been at the door hadn’t come inside, so they hadn’t been able to hear her cries for help. Or three, that whoever this man was who had brought her here had a partner.

  None of those choices were particularly appealing.

  As pointless as she knew it was, Paisley struggled against her chains. She wasn't sure how long she could stand being kept like this, not that she had any say in the matter. With her arms strung up above her head, her hands had already gone numb. The pain in her shoulder was unbearable, and it took all her efforts not to let it overwhelm her. Her legs were also beginning to cramp as she was stuck perching on her tiptoes. Blood from the shallow cut he had given her had trickled down her cheek and dripped off her chin, and her sweatshirt stuck to her back where the gunshot wound had come open and seeped blood that had now dried.

  This was hell.

  She’d rather be back out taking her chances in the storm. She might have died, but at least it would have been relatively quick and painless. She would have just passed out and then slipped peacefully away. Her death here wasn't going to be quick or painless. That man was going to play with her until he got bored or her body gave out, then he’d chop her into pieces and dispose of her in the woods.

  Footsteps.

  Did she hear footsteps?

  She whimpered, half in fear and half in frustration.

  She needed a plan.

  Only she couldn’t come up with one.

  Paisley felt so helpless, and she hated feeling helpless.

  She wanted to do something. To fight back, to kick, or claw or talk or something, anything. Anything was better than just hanging here and waiting for him to d
o whatever he pleased to her.

  The footsteps got closer, and a moment later her abductor appeared.

  He wasn't alone.

  Over his shoulder, he carried someone.

  A man.

  Stephen.

  Paisley gasped.

  How had Stephen managed to find her?

  And why wasn't he moving?

  “I wasn't planning on keeping him, but he found your shoe,” the man announced as he dumped Stephen’s limp body on the floor in the corner.

  Her shoe?

  She glanced down and saw that she was only wearing one of her boots; the other must have fallen off somewhere along the way and Stephen had found it. Now he was a prisoner here too.

  No one else knew where they were.

  Her car would eventually be found, and a search would no doubt ensue to try to find her. Stephen, too, would be noticed missing and his colleagues would surely do whatever they could to find him. But they wouldn’t know where to look. Even if they were ever found, it would only be pieces of their bodies probably buried in shallow graves.

  “This was the man that pulled you from the car. He saved you once, but I wouldn’t get any ideas of being rescued this time.” The man patted Stephen down and pulled out his gun, twirling it around his finger, before carrying it over to his table and setting it down.

  Paisley had no hopes of being rescued.

  She just hated that Stephen had been pulled into this because of her.

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Hot tears. Angry tears. It wasn't fair. She’d met the man who she believed she could fall in love with, and instead of getting a chance to explore what could be between them, they were both going to be murdered.

  Stephen hadn’t moved an inch.

  Perhaps he was already dead.

  No.

  Wait.

  Did he just wiggle his fingers?

  The man was coming back over to her, a long, thin-bladed knife in his hands. If Stephen really was conscious and planning something, then she didn't want to draw their attacker’s attention to him.