Because I would take her.
I would fuck her.
Hundreds, no, thousands of times.
I couldn’t live with her and not be inside her.
Welcomed or forced, it didn’t matter at this point. I had to have her. Again and again.
So what did that say of me that instead of being eager for her fight, I was rock hard and starving for her threat.
I wanted the day when she finally kissed me back.
I wanted the heartbreak she promised me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAPTIVITY MADE ME PETTY.
Yet another thing I’d learned about myself since I’d made the colossal mistake of driving to this cursed national park and finding him.
So far, I’d made a list.
Some revelations, I liked. They showed growth, fortitude, and consideration. Others, I did not. They showed grouchiness, short-temperedness, and the unnerving ability to hold a grudge (despite endless pep talks to myself to look on the bright side, to see a silver lining, to believe in the greater good).
Hah, greater good?
Was I meant to believe this was supposed to happen? That I was supposed to put up with his behavior and not be annoyed? Even Mother Teresa would’ve been annoyed.
I looked after him, for goodness’ sake!
Tapping my pen against my lips, I scowled at my list. The list I’d made to look like the dating profile I’d filled in what felt like eons ago.
Name: Gemma Ashcroft
Age: Twenty-six
Looking for: Sanity to outwit and outplay a man who isn’t a bad person but does bad things. A man who’s suppressed so much crap only a solid baseball bat to his stupid head will wake him up.
Game plan: Two options: Option one, continue the silent treatment, let his mistakes speak loudly, and withhold all kinds of conversation, companionship, and connection. Option two, pretend I’m not annoyed. Seduce him, obey him, and make him believe he’s forgiven. Grant his delusion of a happily ever after between us by showing him it’s not only achievable but already achieved.
I ripped out the page from the notebook I’d found in the games room and tore it to shreds.
No way could I kiss him again, suck him, touch him.
God.
I threw the confetti all over the hide of an unfortunate bear skin on the floor. I’d told him the truth a week ago when he’d cornered me in the conservatory. The day I showed any kindness toward him again, a single speck of lust, it wasn’t because I’d thawed and forgiven him, but because I’d chosen option two.
And the endgame of option two?
Simple.
Make him want me past all reason, make him love me beyond all ability, and make him let me go of his own free will. And then...I’m climbing out of here and never, ever coming back.
The only problem was—well, I actually had two problems with option two.
Problem one was, I didn’t think I could physically touch that man without wanting to stab him ninety-nine times with my pointy best friend. I had so much rage inside. So much injustice that I trembled with fury every time I felt him moving around, thanks to the link between us. The feathering around my ankle, the clinking of the chain, all had the power to boil my blood.
I’d managed to go through life completely oblivious to true anger. Sure, I’d had the odd explosion of words, the gossip sessions with girlfriends at school about some moronic teacher or idiot student, and I might have had a few run-ins with my parents and brother—as all people did.
But I’d never stewed in passionate vehemence before.
He’d done that to me.
He’d turned my happy little heart into one dripping with murderous contempt.
I was lucky, I supposed, that I’d turned to anger instead of self-pity. It was exhausting and maddening, and I wished I could remember how to stop being so damn mad and find calm, but now?
Ooooh, now, I was passed a pep talk and plotting.
My hand curled around my pen, wishing it was Kas’s neck. I honestly couldn’t get rid of the fizzing fury in my blood. I needed to hit him to get it out. I physically needed to mark him so he knew just how angry I was. How betrayed.
And that was the crux of my second problem with option two.
That plan all hinged on betrayal.
If I swallowed the rage inside me—which I didn’t even think was humanly possible at this point—and returned to his bed, I would have to hide this hate inside me. I would have to touch him gently, speak kindly, and do the opposite of everything I felt.
I’d already been nice to him.
I’d already attempted to use decency to win him over.
And look where that got me?
Around and around in circles. A month since I’d arrived. A month! Four long weeks since my family had heard from me. If I chose option two, I would betray not just myself but them too. I would be swallowing every nasty word he deserved and every lesson he needed to hear to be normal.
And...the worst part of option two, I wouldn’t just be betraying a man into believing I wanted him when nothing could be further from the truth, but I’d also run the risk of betraying everything I stood for.
I’d shown my heart was already weak where he was concerned. My body was already confused between passion and resentment.
Could I trust myself?
Can I honestly believe I won’t fall into the same trap and start wanting him in return?
I’d dreamed of him.
I’d dreamed of his tongue in my mouth and his fingers between my legs. I’d dreamed of us rocking together, straining together, coming—
“Argh!” I grabbed another piece of paper, just because it was blank and staring at me with far too many nasty possibilities, and tore it into ribbons.
And the worst part? Those dreams had been good. Better than good. Downright erotic, leaving me frustrated and wet and—
“We have a finite amount of supplies, Gemma Ashford. You should be more careful about not wasting them.”
My head snapped up. “You!”
He nodded, stepping into the games room with bare feet and long, wild hair. Unlike the past week when we’d seen glimpses of each other but no more, avoiding each other like silent uncivilized flatmates, he’d dressed.
His naked chest and muscular legs were now hidden beneath a black T-shirt and jeans.
Jeans?
Why did such an innocuous piece of clothing look so...wrong on him. No, not wrong. Far, far too good. He filled them out. His thighs pressed against blue denim, his knees indenting the dense fabric as he strode slowly toward me. The chain, buckled around his waist, slinked out beneath the hem of his T-shirt.
Which guest’s wardrobe had he raided to find such domesticated, normal clothes? And just how long would they last before the jeans were torn and the T-shirt was in shreds like the slacks and shirt from before?
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, standing before me with his legs braced and toes digging into the unlucky bear skin.
My eyes narrowed. “How could I possibly tell? You have the facial hair of that dead bear you’re standing on.”
His head cocked. “You’re saying I need to shave?”
“I don’t care what you need.” Bringing my knees up where I sat on the leather button couch, I huddled around my notepad and pretended to write something highly important. “Leave me alone.”
I flinched as the chain between us clinked softly. He didn’t speak as he sat beside me, reclining with his good arm spread over the back of the couch, his fingertips unnervingly close to my shoulder.
Goosebumps scurried over my back and down my legs.
Why?
Why must he have this effect on me?
“Writing a grocery list?” He licked his lips, leaving a glisten behind. For a week, we’d avoided each other, and in that week, he’d steadily gotten better. I’d heard him snarling in his dreams and woken to my ankle yanking me out of the blanket cocoon I’d made in the conservatory as
he’d suffered whatever nightmares still plagued him, but during the day, he honored what he’d told me.
He needed to heal, and I needed time to let my rage fade.
The only thing was, he seemed to be healing, but my rage didn’t seem to be fading.
The color in his cheeks showed he’d been outside yesterday. He hadn’t been doing any gardening or other labor—I would’ve felt the tension on the chain if we strayed too far apart—but I did think his headaches were getting more manageable. At least enough for him to become fixated on harvesting and bunkering down for a winter I couldn’t fathom.
It was still scorching outside.
Sure, the grass had gone dry after being drenched from the storm a few weeks ago, and the vegetables looked unhappy with wilting leaves and paling colors. And if I dared to look past the glittering blue of the river up the cliff face to the trees with their crisscross ceiling of branches, I’d confess green now interspersed with orange and brown.
Autumn was only a few days away.
Unfortunately, the russet colors and bracken-breezes seemed to have triggered an even deeper urgency in the feral man I lived with. Each time he’d left a meal for me, consisting of whatever vegetable he’d deemed worthy of eating that night, the aura of the house was famine. The two nights he’d actually provided a few strips of smoked meat had felt as if he was sharing something vitally precious with someone he couldn’t stand.
When we’d bump into each other in the foyer or skirted around each other as we drifted from room to silent room, I hadn’t let myself see just how much his stare lingered after me. How he’d pause and almost seemed as if he wanted to talk to me. To begin a conversation, to cast aside our animosity, to find a way to bridge what he’d destroyed.
I hadn’t permitted that.
I hadn’t granted a single word since our argument. For all intents, I’d been lazy. I hadn’t lifted a finger to clean, care, or cook. I definitely hadn’t bothered cooking.
I dare not go back outside and select anything from his veggie patch. Hell no. I’d learned that lesson, thank you very much. Occasionally, I’d help myself to a chocolate bar and finished the muesli bar stash in my bag (stupidly eating my rations if I ever did manage to escape), but I was under no illusions that was the extent of my diet if he hadn’t chosen to share.
Not that I’d expected Kas to feed me. Not after his explosiveness the other day, so the fact that, without fail, he always left a plate of something for me, tangled even further with my complicated emotions.
I wanted to hate him so, so badly.
And I do.
But...in other ways, I didn’t. I still remembered the man who’d hugged me as if he couldn’t breathe without me in his arms. I dreamed of the sweetest kiss he’d given. I daydreamed of the boy who’d asked me out.
If I could just get him to let down his many, many walls, perhaps I could appeal to the other elements inside him. The pieces of him that weren’t so badly abused that they’d rather attack than compromise.
Even if you did succeed, he’ll still keep you here.
Things had gone too far to let me just walk away now.
I sighed, feeling twice my age.
“I told you the silent treatment won’t sit well with me,” he murmured, eyeing up my notepad, his gaze dark and full of annoyance. We were closer than we’d been since he’d chained me in the kitchen. The sun shone through the skylight dotted with wildflowers above, highlighting the silvery scars over his forearms and the turbulent shadows darkening his gaze.
What caused those scars, those shadows?
Who could be so cruel?
“Say something.” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have plenty to say after seven days.”
“Nothing that you haven’t heard before.”
“I’m happy for you to repeat it. My memory has been playing tricks on me lately.”
“No more so than usual, I’m sure. And pity for you, I’m not in the repeating mood.” I scribbled another line of gibberish, keeping the paper angled away from him so he couldn’t tell his presence rattled me.
Awkward quietness fell between us. It had nails, slowly dragging silence down a chalkboard and making my hair stand on end.
“What are you writing that’s more important than me?” He sniffed, ripping the notebook from my grasp.
“Hey!”
“Ribbons led me here, a chain kept me here, but betrayals will set me free.” His forehead furrowed, scanning my nonsense sentence. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, none of your business.” I snatched it back, shoving it beneath me and the cushion.
He shifted away and rubbed his broken arm, still with the splint I’d fashioned for him. His profile revealed he bit back his temper. Like me, he physically trapped words behind his teeth and forced them down his throat.
I fully expected him to stand and leave. My heart raced, just waiting for him to give me back my peace.
Sitting forward, he clasped his hands together. The rustle of denim on leather was such a masculine sound. His long hair and etched muscles could’ve painted him as a bad boy with a motorbike. Throw a patched jacket on him and a cigarette between his lips and he would’ve been the quintessential poster boy for all terrible decisions and reckless choices.
I couldn’t stand that even now—even with my blazing anger protecting me from whatever mind games he’d play next, I still found him unbelievably attractive. Rugged and untamed and entirely unpredictable.
It’s that unpredictability that makes him the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.
My fury threatened to overflow, threaded with pain I would not, could not show. “If you won’t leave. I will.” Standing, I charged forward, my only intention to get the hell out of the games room and somewhere that had untainted oxygen.
“Not so fast.” He grabbed the quickly unraveling chain between us and jerked me to a stop.
I almost tripped. It made my anger evolve into merciless flames. “What?” I spun around. “What do you want?”
He scanned me from head to toe. His eyes lazy, his insolent desire pricking my soul. “It’s been a week.”
I crossed my arms. “So?”
“So...” He gave me a look. A look that rolled its eyes and basically spelled out his intentions without needing anything else from him.
I said I’d take you in a week.
I congratulated myself that I didn’t back away, but I couldn’t fight the furious blush creeping over my cheeks. “I don’t care if it’s been a century; my threat still stands.” Reaching into my stretchy skirt’s waistband, I pulled out my stolen kitchen knife. I didn’t go anywhere without it now. It was permanently attached to me. “Come near me, and you’ll regret it.”
He stood. His balance faltered a little, hinting he wasn’t fully mended. He never took his eyes off me, branding me as his intensity changed from stern to...sexy. A sexy, soft look that switched his entire face from savage to wanting.
My breath hitched as his focus dropped to my mouth.
Things inside me that had no logical reason for existing sparked awake. They sparked, and I didn’t know how to deal with that.
Closing his eyes with a pained expression, he cleared his throat, and the moment was gone. When he opened his eyes again, they were cold and hard. “As flattering as that offer is, I have other things in mind than fucking you. More important things.”
I ignored my flinch as I replayed the way he’d just looked at me and the way I’d reacted.
Liar.
He’d come for sex. His gaze had said as much. So, now what is he up to?
Suspicion layered my tone. “What things?”
His face darkened, even as lust continued to bracket his mouth. “Unlike you, I haven’t wasted time writing nonsense in a notebook or reading ridiculous magazines.”
“Good for you.”
His jaw worked with impatience. “I’ve taken the past week to fully assess the likelihood of us surviving winter with o
ur current supplies.”
“Clever. Do you want an award?”
“What I want,” he snapped, “is what you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you—”
“The food I’d grown was enough for one. I’d already used more than I should keeping you fed, then you went and used at least a month of rations that ought to have been stored. Which means we now have a serious fucking problem.”
I ignored the urge to say something argumentative. Instead, I pointed out the obvious. “If you let me go, you’d only have one mouth to feed.”
“If I let you go, I won’t have the manpower to prepare everything I need. Not with how I’m feeling—” He cut himself off with a scowl.
I shouldn’t... it made me a bad person, but I relished in his misfortune, even if it was at my detriment. “Not as strong as you once were, Kas?”
“Careful.” His temper flared, dark eyes narrowing with ire. “Actually, you know what, fuck it. I’m done with this.”
I stiffened. “Done with what?”
“Playing games with you.” Marching toward me, he shook away the cotton in his head and grabbed my wrist with his good hand. “I’m not feeling well. There, I admit it. I’d hoped I’d be back to normal by now, but the truth is, I’m not.” Yanking me to him, he hissed, “The truth is, Gemma, I need you and not in the way you keep threatening will end with my cock sliced off with a knife. I need you to put aside your high-handed outrage and—”
“High-handed?” I snorted. “I think you’re getting confused. You’re the high-handed one. You tyrannical, overbearing bastard.”
“Enough!” he roared, pushing me away and raking a hand through his hair. His face lost a little color, his eyes etched with pain. He wasn’t lying about his current health. I could strike and kill him easily if I was cold-hearted enough to take his life.
Do it!
Run!
I shifted on the spot, highly aware of the weight of the blade and the queasiness in my stomach.
“Finally decided to do it, huh?” He chuckled blackly. “I admit my weakness, and you light up as if I’ve just given you the key.”
My eyes locked with his. “Do you blame me?”
For a second, he didn’t move, then he shocked me with a half-smile, weary and not at all what I expected. “No, I don’t blame you.” He swallowed and fiddled with his homemade cast. “It’s what I would do.”
Fable of Happiness Book Two Page 16