by Kendra Leigh
Movement to my right catches my eye. A dresser with a mirror stands directly opposite the bathroom door and in its reflection is a perfect view of the room beyond. Brown Eyes stands with his back to the door, muscles undulating beneath his skin as his hands work the zipper of his pants, lowering them over hips and ass as he pushes them down his legs. I freeze. The inked serpent, it seems, begins its journey from between his toes, winding its way over his foot and around his leg as it slithers gracefully beneath the hem of perfectly fitting boxer briefs.
My breath catches in my chest as thumbs hook under the waistband and push down to unveil firm, round butt cheeks contracting and relaxing as he steps out of the briefs. The serpent reappears from between his legs, curling gently over the left side of his butt and around to the hip bone. My breath hisses on release. He seems to tilt his head, shaking it slightly as he looks down to something he holds in his hand. Holy Mary Mother of God—turn around.
My own thoughts shock the hell out of me. I force myself to look away, horrified by the way my body reacts to the vision unfolding in the next room. A ball of heat unfurls in my belly, an ache traveling to the depths of my core causing a burning throb between my legs. I cross them, squeezing tight, trying to rid myself of the building pressure. My panties feel wet. What the hell.
Focus, Savannah, I whisper to myself. This is not one of your stupid erotic dreams. This is real. He abducted you. You could be in danger. Think! Look around, work out how to get out of here.
Straining, I lift my head from the pillow to see out of the window. The light outside looks like late afternoon. Nick will have surely texted by now to check my whereabouts—and tried to call when I didn’t reply. Not answering the phone will go down as a transgression. Not being home when he arrives back from work? I don’t want to think what that will mean. Nerves coil in my gut. I wonder if they’ve told him, whomever it is that’s taken me, asked for a ransom or something. If Brown Eyes is to be believed, he doesn’t know why I’m here. Or he isn’t telling.
I think back over our conversation. Maybe your husband is the reason you’re here. The sharp edges of the words bubble in my throat like bile before evolving into a deeper meaning, the edges softening and rounding to become more sanguine. If he is the reason, then he’ll know why I’m not home. He’ll know it’s not my fault. Like to gamble, does he? This husband of yours? I remember Ava having heard rumors about how Nick likes to push his luck at the blackjack table. Is that why I’m here? Has Nick been pushing too far and swerving his debts? Well, I expect we’ll see how good of a gambler he is when he’s forced to gamble with your life. Is my life really in danger? Will Nick take the risk and gamble or pay what he owes? And what, deep down, do I hope he’ll do?
Despite everything I know about my situation, strangely I still don’t fear the man in the bathroom. In terms of physique, he’s far larger than Nick, but Nick has a way of looking at me—a cold bleakness in his eyes, as if he’s detached from the things he says and does. Unpredictable and cruel. Brown Eyes seems different. There’s a calmness to his tone when he speaks. A warm assurance in the way his eyes smile along with his mouth. His arms had felt safe when he carried me from the forest—strong and safe.
“Your turn.”
Startled, I jerk my head toward the sound. He stands in the doorway, a towel draped from his hips, another one in his hands which he smooths over his buzz cut and down over his chest and abs to soak up droplets of water.
“For what?” I say, quickly averting my gaze and wishing he’d put some clothes on.
“I took the liberty of starting a bath for you. It’s almost ready.”
He wants me to take my clothes off? “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“You’ll take a bath.” His tone is adamant but not harsh. “Don’t be difficult, short stuff. You were holed up in a trunk for over two hours before tearing off through the woods for an afternoon sprint. You’ll need one.”
Without pause, he stalks toward me, the scent of male body wash and warm skin washing over me as he leans to untie me. At this close proximity, I notice a starburst shaped scar on his shoulder and wonder, for a moment, if it could be a bullet wound. When he’s done, I scuttle away to the other side of the bed, my fingers rubbing at the skin on my wrists.
“Come here,” he says from behind me.
Oh shit!
Standing, I move slowly around the bed. He reaches out and takes my hands in his, his eyes assessing mine before shifting to look at the pink tether marks around my wrists. His fingers begin to move in circular motions as he gently massages the area, a gesture so tender it makes my breath catch. We lock eyes again. Reading. Waiting.
“Get undressed,” he whispers.
What? My eyes widen, watching as the edges of his crinkle into a smile followed closely by his lips. He’s teasing me.
“Relax,” he moves aside, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’ve left some things out for you. Make yourself at home.”
I can’t remember the last time I relaxed in the tub. It’s been years. Nick frequently enjoys a soak. He likes me to rub his feet as he sprawls out in the huge Jacuzzi tub in his en suite. He had it fitted when I was delegated to the guest room a few years ago, and other than filling it for him, the nearest I ever get to it is to clean it. It’s a bitch to clean.
The idea that I’m now immersed neck high in scented bubbles in a petty log cabin, deep in the woods somewhere far away from Nick, brings a perverse smile to my lips, and I begin to relax. Who will clean his tub tomorrow, I wonder. Not me.
I take my time, indulging in every gorgeous second of this chance to pamper myself. Brown Eyes has provided an array of quality products, and after washing and conditioning my hair, I smother my warm pink skin in silky body lotion before wrapping myself in the fluffy white robe left hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
Not sure of what to expect when I emerge, I find the nerves creeping back inside my stomach. I delay as much as I can by putting the bathroom back in order, tidying away the products I’ve used and making best use of the basic cleaning items I find in the cupboard beneath the sink. For a few fleeting moments, I begin to panic, worrying that my work is inadequate, until I realize I’m doing it more out of habit than fear and necessity. After all, Nick isn’t here to reprimand me. I ponder whether to dress again, put on my shorts and vest from before, but frankly, I’m more concealed in the robe.
Cautiously, I turn the handle and open the door. The delicious aroma of food cooking instantly reminds me how hungry I am. Barefoot and dressed in jeans and a casual white shirt, Brown Eyes busies himself in the kitchen, setting cutlery and glasses on the small round table in the middle. Slinging a dish towel over his shoulder, he turns back to the stove to tend to the pans. I watch as he moves around between refrigerator, chopping board, and stove, his capable hands strong and controlled as he skillfully carries out his tasks.
As he turns back to the table, I catch his attention. His eyes shift to meet mine before drifting thoughtfully over my face and hair and down the length of the robe. Smiling, he nods toward the small wardrobe in the bedroom.
“There are some clean clothes if you’d like to dress. You should find they’re all your size.”
The hell?
Seemingly amused by my confused expression, he turns and goes about his business, calling out, “Chop-chop! Dinner’s almost ready.”
With growing concern, I rifle through the wardrobe, finding a mix of casual shorts, tanks, skirts, shirts, and T-shirt dresses, all my size, all perfect for the warm weather, all … me. The drawers are filled with expensive panties, bras, and thongs, all silk and lace and feminine, and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks in the knowledge that a strange man has picked them out for me. Aside from this peculiarity, while it’s nice to discover I have clean clothes at hand, the sheer amount of choice suggests I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.
Tugging a T-shirt dress from its hanger and gathering underwear, I slide into the bathroom and quickly change.
Although I’m hungry and for the most part—naïve or not—I feel safe, I’m not sure I feel comfortable sitting down to break bread with this man who’s kidnapped me off the street and provided me with lace underwear.
“It’s perfectly safe…” he nods toward the plate of food as if detecting my reluctance “…but it is going cold, so sit.”
I do as I’m told, taking the opportunity to appreciate the hunk of prime beef filet, salad, and crusty bread he’s presented perfectly on the plate in front of me. My stomach growls audibly, my mouth salivating from the whiff of freshly made garlic butter melting over the heat of the steak.
“How do you know I’m not vegetarian?” I ask abruptly, my mind flitting to Nick who refuses to eat meat because it repulses him and he’s afraid of heart disease rather than because he’s concerned with the plight of animals.
“You’re not,” he says, tucking into his own meal. “And you like your steak served medium rare with freshly made garlic butter and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.” He picks up the bottle on the table, pouring the fine red wine into my glass before filling his from a jug of iced water and lemon.
“How do you know all this?”
Ignoring me, he takes another bite and nods at my untouched food. “Mmm, you should try this.”
“Why aren’t you drinking the wine?”
“Why aren’t you?” he retorts.
Picking up my glass, I take a cautious sip of the wine, the smooth velvet liquid sending my taste buds spiraling into a hive of prickling activity. “Your turn.”
His lips tilt into a half smile. “Eat,” he commands.
Determined not to give in, I sit back in the chair and fold my arms. “How long do you intend to keep me here?” Still nothing. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“No names.”
“You have to give me something!”
“I gave you steak.”
Shaking my head in bewilderment, I glance down at the perfectly cooked meat before me. “You can’t seriously believe that an offering of steak is enough to counter the humiliation and defilement of being forcibly taken against my will, stuffed into your trunk, and tied to a bed!”
Amusement burns in his eyes. “Eat first and then we’ll talk.” He pauses. “Unless you want to persist with your bad manners.”
“I do not have bad manners.”
Waving his hand at the untouched food, he pushes his bottom lip out, begging to differ.
“So if I eat, you’ll talk?”
“Some.”
“You’ll tell me what—”
“Savannah!” His tone is stern but the tenderness in his eyes is unmistakable. Still, while my instinct isn’t to fear him, I don’t know his limits and don’t want to push too far.
Picking up my knife and fork, I cut into the steak and pop a piece in my mouth where it practically melts on my tongue. Other than the very rare occasions I eat out, nobody ever cooks for me. I can’t help but relish in the delight that all I have to do is sit back, relax, and eat. Not only that, but I don’t have to worry about the cutlery being shined to perfection, or everything on the plate being equally spaced, or countless other caveats that are usually in place at meal times.
As I sit devouring the food and wine, a thought suddenly strikes me. “So, if you won’t tell me your name, what am I supposed to call you?”
He hitches a brow, as if I’m crossing the line again.
“What? It’s just conversation.”
“You can call me anything you like. Whatever you think suits me.”
“I can think of a few things.” I laugh without mirth.
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll be reasonable.”
“Fine. But if I don’t get to use your real name, then you don’t get to use mine.”
He pauses for thought, his eyes narrowed. “Fine, we’ll make some up then. You go first. What’s the first word that springs to mind when you look at me?” He sits back, his hands cradled in front of him, chin lowered in warning. “Think carefully, short stuff.”
The name Brown Eyes teeters on the edge of my tongue, but not only is it a mouthful, it sounds almost endearing, and in the circumstances that isn’t appropriate at all. I can’t risk anything derogatory or I’ll end up with short stuff for the duration. Then it comes to me in an instant, the single word that presented itself the second I came into contact with him.
Chapter Seven
Jackson
“BEAR?”
Savannah nods, apparently pleased with herself.
“You want me to answer to the name of a big hairy beast?”
“It’s as good a name as any. You said to choose the first thing that occurred to me. Besides, I think it’s quite appropriate given our surroundings. Forests like these must be rife with big hairy bears. You should feel right at home.”
Charming, I think. I might be big in comparison to her, but I’m not bloody hairy. Must be my mean, moody expression she’s picked up on, or it could be my astounding good looks—bears are extremely notable creatures. Perhaps it’s my smiley brown-bear eyes; they’ve been mentioned once or twice over the years. Whatever. I could think of worse things than answering to the name of an animal. Especially as I don’t know whether I’m Jax, Jackson, or whoever the hell I am these days. I smile broadly. “I like it. Bear it is.”
A light shines in her eyes, like my answer pleases her. “I guess it’s your turn, then. And, just so you know, short stuff is off limits or you get … baldy.”
“Baldy!” The cheek. “I am not bald. I just like to wear my hair very short. It’s easier to manage this way.”
“Yes, I can imagine it must be tiresome having to keep it clean, given you do such a dirty job, and all.”
I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. This teasing, playful side to her is … sexy. “Do you really think now is the right time to start being cheeky? Given that I’m just about to choose your name.”
She wrinkles up her button nose. “Cheeky?”
“Yes, cheeky. It means impolite. Ill-mannered. You mocking my Britishness is also cheeky.”
“That’s twice you’ve called me out on my manners. I’d say that’s cheeky. Especially given that you’re the one who disrupted my day by hauling me into your trunk like a sack of last week’s laundry.”
“Okay, okay, enough. No more talk of cheeky. Finish your dinner while I think what I want to call you.”
I study her while she takes small bites of her food. Petite hands skillfully cutting into the steak, rosebud lips closing around it, nose wiggling gently as she chews the tiny morsels. I think of the way she looked when she emerged from the bathroom, smothered in a mass of fluffy robe: so delicate and graceful, a tiny but perfectly formed creature of beauty.
“Sparrow.” I barely whisper the word as it materializes on my lips.
“As in the bird?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “You’re perfect…It … it’s perfect.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. “If you say so.”
“Did you enjoy it?” I nod at her now empty plate.
She reaches for her glass of wine and takes a sip before answering. “Actually, as much as it pains me to admit, yes. It, too, was perfect.”
I smile at her backhanded compliment, and although she hasn’t, in fact, thanked me for the meal, I say, “You’re welcome.”
Suddenly, she makes to stand. “I’ll get on with the dishes.”
“Nonsense, woman. Sit down, I’ll do them later. Enjoy the wine.” I pick up the bottle and go to fill her glass while she sits, her eyes nervously watching the contents of the bottle slowly diminish.
“I’m not sure I should drink anymore.”
“Why? You driving?” When she doesn’t see the funny side, I add, “Look, relax. I know this place isn’t the Ritz, but we’ve got good food, good wine. Just chill out, enjoy it. We didn’t get off to a good start, I rea
lize that, and I’m sorry if the trip in the trunk scared you, but I really was just following orders. You really don’t need to worry so much, you know, you’re perfectly safe with me.”
“It’s not that. I just think it’s better to keep a clear head.” She pauses, head down before adding, “I know you say don’t worry, but I am. I mean … all this. It is scary. It’s a little hard to relax when I have no idea what to expect or what’s going to happen? Please, I need to know.”
Something in her expression tells me she’s genuinely concerned for her safety. And while that might sit comfortably with Jax, it’s not something Jackson is at ease with. Something tells me this is going to be far more exhausting than I remember. All this … Being Jax was second nature to me back in the old days because Jax was who I was. Now I’m Jackson pretending to be Jax and, frankly, flipping between the two has me in a tailspin. Not only that, but it’s not how these things work. Consistency. Having your head in the game from start to finish, that’s how they work. Maybe forgetting who I am and just being a hairy fucking bear might find me some middle ground I can work with, but a lot of that depends on Savannah, or Sparrow as she’ll now be known. Experience reminds me that everybody handles these situations differently. Keep it real, don’t keep it real … I’ll go with the flow. For now, though, while it’s technically against the rules, I don’t think I have any other option than to throw her a rope.
“Look, all I can do is tell you how these things usually work, what I’m paid to do. If it seems candid, I apologize, but you asked, and I feel it’s my moral duty to put you at ease—although it’s not standard ops, you understand. Simply put, my role here is to put the fear of God in you, tie you up and keep you captive in this pokey old cabin while doing unspeakable things to you.” Her eyes widen in alarm; I’m not doing a great job with the at ease thing, so I change tack. “However, despite my designated name, I can assure you I am not an animal and there is no way on earth I’d do anything to put you in harm’s way. While we’re here, everything’s subjective. It’s just us, so if you’re uncomfortable with anything, just say and I’ll do my best to reassure you. If all you want to do while we’re here is, I don’t know, sit and eat steak, that’s fine. It’s what we’ll do. For now, though, why don’t you just try not to over think it all?”