I have no right to complain; I’m not even walking. However, I have had to relieve myself several times in the brush so far, and I would love a toilet with actual toilet paper. It’s made worse that each time I do feel the need for a restroom, I have to request that Gavin remove my handcuffs, which he does grudgingly, only for him to follow me to a corner and stand guard. I always have had trouble peeing with an audience. I mean, he’s not watching me pee, but his nearness in itself is enough to cause stage fright.
Afterward, the sweatpants strips go back around and three fresh zip ties are tugged into place. I can’t escape while being carried within Hawke or Connor’s arms regardless, but I’m beginning to suspect the ties might be a message to me just as much as they serve as a deterrent to running; nothing shouts dependence louder than bindings that must be removed by someone other than yourself.
I’d also love a chance to sleep. I can’t remember the last good night’s sleep I’ve had. I dozed for a while in Hawke’s arms after the rescue, but it was nothing compared to what I need. My exhaustion knows no bounds. To have sat on that hotel bed last night, experienced the soft firmness, and then not have had the luxury of indulging in it? Sheer torture.
Piper stumbles ahead of me, snagging a low-hanging branch for support. Her father slings an arm around her waist, and it’s obvious he takes on some of her weight. She’s out of it, so much so that she doesn’t even notice or acknowledge the gesture, but Gavin does.
There’s a muscle clenching in his jaw, a worried tic. Does he feel responsible? He said he moved the pack here, but was dismayed with the vampire populace he’d found. I feel guilty for Nolan’s death, but how much more so does Gavin feel? He’s their king. They look to him for everything, yet lost one of their own in the process and are now making a retreat, with only me as a consolation prize.
Despite what he must feel, Gavin hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t blamed me. He hasn’t lashed out. Well, this revelation just does wonders for my self-esteem. I’ve been so concerned with my own self, that I haven’t considered Gavin’s feelings. He looks to be in pain, and I feel responsible for it.
Another hour of trudging through the forest, with me being passed to Hawke’s arms, and I hear cars in the distance.
“Are we in Canada?” I ask him.
“No,” Hawke answers, despite a glare from Gavin. I don’t know why he wants to keep me in the dark. It’s not as if a general location, such as the name of a country, is going to help me escape. And I do plan on escaping, because no matter how much I wish things were different for Gavin, I still have no desire to be a part of all this.
The sound of cars grows louder. Civilization never sounded so inviting.
“Well, where are we?” I ask, determined for an answer.
“There’s a little airport in Ilwaco. We’ll hop from there to a larger airport, and then on home.”
This bit of information receives another glare from Gavin. And it’s obvious why.
We’ve been going in circles. Nothing else makes sense. To prevent the vampires from tracking us?
“Ilwaco?! You mean to tell me that with all the travelling we’ve done, we’re little more than a half hour away from my home? How is that even possible?”
Gavin scowls at that. I guess that explains why he didn’t want me to know where we’re going. I’m close to home. So close I can taste Papa’s Syrniki. Oh, how I miss simple things like Syrniki on a Saturday morning.
“Our distance from Astoria is no’ important, as we shall no’ be returning there. We’re going home,” Gavin growls, not even bothering to look back to me, instead increasing our pace toward the sounds of civilization.
“Astoria is my home!” I yell.
I didn’t intend it to come out that loud, and the end result of all the pack members staring me down is not pleasant in the least, but he just makes me so angry! How dare he presume to tell me where my home is? Whether or not he manages to get me to Scotland makes no difference. It will never be my home.
At my words, the obvious tension in Gavin’s shoulders winds even tighter. They hunch up to his ears, and drop back down. He spins on his heel and stomps to Hawke’s side. Hawke takes a step back with me, but Gavin will not be deterred.
“Bràthair . . . ” Hawke says low.
Two perfect brows lift above intense amber eyes that once again exhibit an internal flame. Unnatural. Gavin lifts his arms, gesturing for Hawke to hand me over. He’s too angry for my simple remark, or maybe he’s angry that Hawke sounds hesitant.
I know better than to clutch at Hawke, though a part of me still wants to. Just like a pet, a little lapdog, I’m passed from one man to the other. Gavin sets me on my feet and grabs my bound wrists, tugging me forward. The pack parts like the Red Sea.
Despite everything, I laugh a little hysterically at the thought of the comparison between Gavin and Moses. He doesn’t share my amusement.
“I know you’re no’ happy, and I’m sorry you feel that way. However, that does no’ change the fact that you are going home with me. Tis in the best interest of you and our bairn—even your family and friends,” he mutters, as he walks me to the side.
“I disagree. If you want to pursue a relationship with me, there’s always Skype. You can send sweaters for the baby and me. It gets awful cold in—”
Wait, better keep that destination to myself.
“Awful cold where, lass?” That awful smirk that I both love and hate spreads over his face. “You would no’ be thinking about escaping tae Russia, would you now?”
Well, darn. Is it that obvious?
“If I say yes, will you try to stop me?” I ask, avoiding his amused gaze.
“Oh, aye.”
“Well, then no.”
He outright laughs, resulting in a tingling warmth in the mark on my neck. Even his laugh has a bit of an accent to it. How is that possible? And why does everything foreign about this man attract me so? I blame my old boring job and Jeff; I played it safe for years. I’m an accountant for gosh sakes; of course a Scottish Highlander with a roguish grin sets my heart to racing.
I’m not to blame. This is all Gavin’s fault.
“I can’t fly. It’s not good for the baby.”
You’re just at twenty-one weeks. Women are safe tae fly until thirty-six weeks. We also have two midwives in the pack that are ready and able tae assist, though I doona foresee any problems. Were children are resilient.”
If I had less self-respect, I’d cross my arms, stomp my foot, and tell him, “I don’t wanna.” Even without the temper tantrum, my feelings must be clear, because Gavin says, “You’re going to board that plane, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
Oh, nuh-uh.
“Look, you may be alpha to this pack, but you’re not my lord and commander, so all this, ‘I’m the boss, and you’d better listen up’ crap can stop. Mmm, kay?”
“You’re an alpha as well, lass; the alpha female.”
“Load of good that’s doing me. Who are these midwives?”
“Athol and Heather.”
At that little nugget of news I lean forward and grab the collar of Gavin’s pullover, as best I can with my mitten cuffs, to tug him close.
“If it’s a kiss you’re wanting, all you have tae do is ask.”
“Shut up, Gavin. Let’s get one thing straight. Even if you do manage to get me on that plane, and even if you do manage to drag me all the way to Scotland, Athol is not to come anywhere near me or my baby.”
His hands come to rest on top of mine, warming them even through the faux-mitts.
“As you wish.”
Well, at least I’ve gained something, but in the scheme of everything else that’s happening, mostly against my will, it’s not enough to appease me. I need more than that, but I don’t know what else to ask for. It’s pointless to beg for the same concessions over and over again, already knowing Gavin’s reaction. He has all the power in our relationship right now, and man does that rankle. But what can I d
o about it? How do I gain the upper hand?
Liam.
No, I can’t use my unborn child as a weapon. It’s wrong. Isn’t that why Gavin and his group want me in the first place? Because Liam is a new, unheard of mixture of species? Part vampire, part human, and part Were? My little Peanut is innocent in all this. I need to do whatever is necessary to ensure he stays that way, which means escaping as soon as possible.
“I’ll be removing your mittens now.”
Right, mittens. I lift my hands for him to release the bindings. However, he doesn’t snip the zip ties. Instead, he uses my hands to pull me close yet again, one of his hands slipping to my back to aid in the effort. He doesn’t stop tugging until our noses are touching, my stomach pressed against his abs, and my back curved to account for our slight height difference.
“I do no’ expect you tae give in without a fight; it’s no’ in you. I do no’ expect you tae like all that must happen tae keep you and our bairn safe; I’m no’ happy with it either. However, I do expect you tae participate in your safety.”
Right when I’m about to lift my knee to take away some of that awful alpha arrogance, Gavin does something unexpected. He apologizes.
“I’m sorry, lass. Truly I am. I doona believe I could ever desire tae let you go. I can no’ regret meeting you, but I do regret how we met. I’m sorry that I’ve brought such strife tae your life.”
I’ve worked enough, dated enough, and just existed in America long enough to know that apologies do not pass from a male’s lips easily, any male’s lips. It just isn’t in their contrary nature. Yet, this man—who is the king of an entire species, who has done nothing overtly wrong and certainly nothing unforgivable, this man who has lived his whole life obeyed by all because of the simple fact that he was born—is telling me he’s sorry.
Maybe it shouldn’t hold so much weight in my eyes. Maybe it shouldn’t hold any. They’re just words, but when coupled with the utter earnestness in his eyes, the lines of concern etched at the corner of his lips, and the regret heavy in his voice—they matter.
His right hand leaves mine, and lifts to cup my face. I don’t need a man. I’m independent, self-sufficient, and not reliant upon a Y chromosome to keep myself safe. Yet, I lean into his touch anyway. His hands are so hot against my skin, a comforting warmth to which I’m already becoming addicted.
“I’ll make it up tae you, little mate. This I vow.”
Everything else leaves his voice and eyes, leaving intensity to remain. He means every word he’s saying to me. He thinks he can make my life better. He thinks the end justifies the means. In his world, might makes right, and in his world I’m lacking in the might department. Chauvinist, medieval male that he is, of course he thinks it’s his responsibility to take on the decisions.
Maybe I could show him a new way? Maybe I could teach him that there’s more than one way to survive? That there’s more than one type of strength?
Am I considering keeping him?
He mistakes my thoughtful silence as something it’s not. Easing the pressure of his hold on my back, he moves his other hand from my cheek and begins breaking the zip ties and unwrapping the connecting strips of cloth from between my wrists.
As he works, he says, “You do know that the reason your da is from Russia is because that is where the deamhanan stronghold resides?”
As if the last couple of minutes and my romantic weakness never happened, my mind zooms in on the removal of that option.
“Oh.”
That nips that plan in the bud. There isn’t any point in escaping one paranormal terror’s home base for another’s, and he isn’t lying. It makes too much sense, and I can feel it. Our weird connection is growing, and it’s unsettling.
“You’ll no longer need sweaters, lass?”
I could strangle him with my freed hands, connection or no.
Maybe Hawaii would be a good alternative; it’s always sunny and warm there. The vamps and Weres would not be attracted to such a climate. However, this time I’m a bit smarter. I don’t offer the option for him to send me a grass skirt. I, for once, keep my mouth shut.
Watching me closely, he laughs, his eyes sparkling with his amusement.
I must be superficial, shallow as hell, because I find everything he says and does sexy, even when it goes against my own wants.
“Now, please, doona make a scene in town.”
A scene? He’s worried about a scene?
When I don’t respond, he continues, “I doona have tae untie you. I will do whatever it takes tae keep you safe, even if I must keep you under lock and key til you accept our situation.”
Gavin waits through my following outburst, his mien asking if I’m done, without need of words. My answer, however, includes lots of words—unsavory ones. My rant is full of words that do not belong in polite conversation. Gavin winces at one particularly vehement four-letter-word. The tormented look he gives me almost makes me smile. Almost.
My mama once told me that if I said certain words I could never be elected president. I wonder if the same concept applies to being appointed queen by matehood? Judging by Gavin’s reaction, even if it doesn’t disqualify me from that position, such language is not common or accepted.
“Are you finished?” he asks, biting out each word between his sharp, white teeth.
He’s beyond the silent communication of expressions, lifted brows, and nods now. Well, I’ve found another way to anger him and push him away. Through my anger, that thought doesn’t bring about the comfort I feel it should.
“I don’t think I am. What you’re considering is awful, and if you even so much as think about attempting it, I will hate you forever.”
He shudders, his fingers twitching. This time, the change goes beyond mere twitching. Unless my lack of sleep is affecting me more than I realize I just saw a bit of fur and claw extend from those strong fingers. That’s enough to have me backing down. Quick. My next expletive dies before it leaves my lips. Is it my constant challenging of his authority that has him on edge? Or is he that prudish?
His chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths, and then he raises a hand palm up, as if asking for a second. Or maybe patience?
“I’m no’ asking you to change who you are. I’ll never do that tae you. However, I would appreciate it if you exhibited some measure o’ decorum. I think I’ve earned some bit o’ respect from you.”
Some bit? Yeah, I can’t deny he’s earned that. He’s rescued me twice, been forgiving with my major slip-ups, and tried to comfort me, even when he was hurting through Nolan’s death. Several other little moments come to mind of Gavin putting me before himself. Once again, my conscience reminds me that five months ago there were two people beneath those sheets; I own half the blame for this situation. He didn’t force me into the catalyst for all of this; I participated. It’s not a reminder I appreciate.
“I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can with the threat of restraints hanging over my head,” I say softly.
“If I promise tae remove that possibility, can you promise tae behave through the remainder o’ our travels home?”
Can I? Despite whatever he’s done for me, I still don’t think any of this is fair. I should be able to leave if I want. I’m my own person, not his possession. My conscience once again butts into my internal debate, this time with the thought of Liam. I may be my own person, capable and free to make my own decisions, but Liam is half Gavin. Literally.
“I don’t want to go. How do I make you understand that? How do I make you understand how frustrated and helpless this whole situation has made me? I don't like it. I'm gridlocked, bound to you by the baby, and trapped by the vampire threat, your expectations, and just the whole mess. It’s one of the worst things to feel.”
“Then I am also trapped; gridlocked, according tae your logic.”
“You brought me here after rescuing me. You refuse to let me leave. You have all the control in our relationship. I have none.”
“That’s right. I rescued you. What else could I have done? What else could I do after that? You want me tae let you go and leave you tae the vampires’ nonexistent mercy? Or do you expect me tae guard you from afar, while you live your life without me? And I can see how you believe that I hold all the control, but tis no’ so. I am bound tae you, for all eternity. I canno’ have children, love, or happiness with anyone but you. You have control o’ my future, and you’re fast gaining control o’ my heart.”
He makes it so impossible to be angry with him, even though I know I should be. But part of me feels badly for him. It’s not pity, per se, but a sense of empathy. He knows what he’s been taught. Gavin has grown up in a culture where extreme value is placed on matehood. You’re not complete until you find your other half. I get that, because in the human world a great emphasis is placed on soul mates as well. The major difference is that, in the human world, it’s all about choice. Some may believe in predestination, sure, but most would agree that a relationship takes two consenting partners who choose each other based on passion, attraction, mutual interests, rather than destiny.
Some of my softening might also be connected to the fact that he said I’m winning his heart. How he could be falling for me in my current, constantly aggravated state, I have no idea, but the thought warms me. I know he’s not just saying it to make me more biddable either. He means everything he says to me. It’s such a rare quality in a man.
“We’re doing this whole thing backward. Can you recognize that?”
“This is no’ the way I would have gone about it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes really, Natalie. Our culture has traditions for courting. Of course, that only works when the mate in question has no’ gotten herself captured by our immortal enemy.”
“Oh, so this is my fault now? What, do you think I wanted to be taken, starved, and scared out of my mind by your immortal enemies? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.”
This time he doesn’t look sorry. It’s not a lie, but still, maybe he doesn’t mean everything he says to me.
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