She turned her head to the side, glancing at Drake. He was twenty feet away, doing an excessive number of push-ups as if his life depended on them.
Oh, and he was shirtless...again.
Every toned muscle on his chest and arms moved together in the most gloriously annoying way. Her eyes scanned across every ripple until they drifted up to his face. The corner of Drake’s mouth lifted into a conceited smile and his brown eyes glimmered. How long had he been watching her watch him? Whatever the amount of time, it was too long. Her gaze jerked back to the chicken.
Focus, Myka. You are one with the chicken.
She pulled at the thigh, grimacing as the meat separated from the bone. This was what her life had come to, gawking at kidnappers and deboning chickens. It was a new level of low.
After a half-hour of wrestling the dead chicken, Myka was finally done. She turned and looked over her shoulder to Portlend, who made a fire behind her. “I’m done. Can I go wash my hands in the river?” She tucked the knife behind her thigh, hiding it from him. She forced a carefree expression like, hey, I’m not hiding this sharp, pointy thing, and I’m definitely not going to use it to stab Drake Vestry in the back and bust out of here.
Portlend barely acknowledged her. “Fine,” he mumbled.
Myka’s brows bent. He gave his prisoner a knife and then didn’t check to get it back from her? He wasn’t a very smart kidnapper. Drake would never do something like that.
Myka started walking to the river, glancing once at Drake. Now he was doing some sort of pull-up thing on a tree branch, taking his overall attractiveness level up another notch.
Give it a rest, man!
Actually, don’t. She needed him distracted right now.
She casually bent over the bank, dipping the knife into the water. She scrubbed the blade with her fingers. The key was to not look suspicious, to wash this knife like it was the most unassuming thing in the world, then she would slip it under her shirt.
What if I forget it’s there, and I cut my stomach when I bend over?
She shook her head. Surely, she would feel the cool metal against her skin before she split her stomach wide open.
Myka jerked from alarm as Drake reached his arms around her, grabbing her wrists, scaring her thoughts away. His touch sent a shiver down her spine as if she was cold, but she wasn’t. When Drake touched her, she felt hot and unsteady and her insides turned to mush.
“Mykaleen Adler and knives are not a good combination,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was deep, and his lips were so close to her ear she could feel his breath on her skin.
She raised her shoulder up to her ear as if that could somehow stop the spread of chills attacking her neck and earlobe. His salty sweaty smell filled the air around her, and his glistening muscles ran against her arms. “I was washing it for Portlend,” she managed to get out.
“My guess is that you were going to take it to use against me.” His words had created more chills. It was weird. She was frustrated that Drake had caught on to her plan, but at the same time, his arms skimming hers, his close cheek, and his hands on hers made her momentarily not even care about the knife.
How stupid could she be?
Drake had kidnapped her.
He held her captive against her will.
How could she be attracted to him? It didn’t make sense.
Shut it down, Myka!
She tried to jerk her arm back, hoping she could press the knife in her hand up to his neck, but his strength overpowered her, keeping her arms locked out in front of her.
“Drop the knife,” he said.
Her jaw clenched, and she pursed her lips together as she opened her hands, letting the blade fall.
Drake leaned forward, catching the knife between his fingers before it went into the river. He held it up in front of her so she could see.
“Myka, Myka, Myka,” he clucked, shaking his head. “You are too predictable.”
She turned her head, making her cheek almost brush against his lips. Her eyes gravitated to his. “You said drop it, so I did.”
Drake tilted his head so his lips were angled toward hers. “Does this mean you’ll do anything I ask?”
His deep voice, his flowing hair, his perfectly trimmed stubble were all working against her, making her heartbeat skyrocket out of control. Frustration pressed against her chest. She was supposed to hate this man. She leaned over, hitting the water in front of her sending a wave of splashes into Drake’s face. He squinted his eyes but didn’t even flinch, like he had somehow predicted she would do that too.
When his eyes finally opened, the look behind them...well, Drake had definitely perfected his flirtatious stare. His gaze sparkled.
Myka was in trouble because there were times that she loved hating Drake Vestry.
After dinner, Myka laid on the cot, staring up at the ceiling. They were still doing the rope thing at night. The neck stabbing hadn’t helped; neither had the knife incident earlier that day.
She hugged the wall so close that her nose was practically touching the rough wood. Drake sat on the edge of the cot next to her, finishing the knot on the rope. “I’m not going to sleep the opposite way as you anymore. You kick too much, and I’m sick of it. I’d like one night of decent sleep.”
Myka eyed him. “I told you it was a stupid idea from the start.”
“Yes, I know,” he muttered. “The crucial body parts.” He swung his legs around and laid down next to her.
Myka swallowed. After two nights of sleeping the opposite direction, this change felt a little too cozy. She was about to tell him that when he asked her a question.
“What were you thinking about tonight at dinner?”
Her brows pulled together. “What do you mean?”
“You were smiling.”
“I was?” What did she have to smile about?
“Yeah, you were watching Winslow and Dawsick, and you were smiling.”
“Oh,” she said, thinking back to the moment. “I was enjoying the irony of Horseface chipping his tooth on a chicken bone I had missed when I prepped the meat.”
“Is that Dawsick’s nickname?”
Myka wasn’t sure if she wanted to share the inner workings of her mind with Drake, but at this point, talking to him was better than talking to nobody.
“Yes,” she said, rolling over to her back so she faced the ceiling. She couldn’t roll to her side and face him. That would be crossing the imaginary line that she had made in her head.
“Horseface? What does that even mean?” His voice became lighter, and it was nice to have something not so heavy to talk about.
Myka puffed her cheeks out then popped them like a balloon, letting out a rush of air. “You know, Dawsick’s features—or more like—his face is long and skinny like a horse’s snout.”
She waited for Drake to say something. When he didn’t, she kept going with her rationale. “I’m not trying to be mean.”
His head turned to hers. “You are being mean, though.”
She rolled her eyes. Of course, Drake would be personally offended on behalf of his jerk of a friend. “I’m just stating a fact. He looks like a horse.” She raised her shoulders. “It’s okay if you like horses,” she said innocently. “It’s not a bad thing. People love horses. They press their foreheads against their snouts all of the time. Perhaps it’s a compliment to call him a horse. Do we need to stop wearing pony-tails because they look too much like a horse’s tail? I mean, it’s not like I called him a jack-ass.”
“I thought you couldn’t handle vulgarity,” Drake said with a laugh. The laugh wasn’t big or boisterous. More deep and throaty, and something inside of Myka felt pleased by the fact that she’d said something he thought was funny, but she didn’t look at him. She wouldn’t be able to hide her smile.
“I didn’t swear,” she said, trying to hold back her smile. “It’s an animal.”
“Well, we both know Horseface isn’t a compliment,” he said.
&nbs
p; Myka bit her lip. “No, it’s not.”
They lay in silence for a few seconds before Drake finally asked, “What are the other nicknames? I’m assuming you have one for all the guys.”
“Grady is Shaggy Hair.”
“He does need a haircut,” Drake agreed.
“There’s Old ’n Slow and Muscle Man. Please tell me you can guess who I’m talking about.”
Drake laughed harder. “And Portlend?” he asked.
“He’s so serious. He’s BizzBuzz.”
Drake lifted his hands behind him, resting them under his head. “And I’m Mr. Grabby Hands?”
“Sometimes. But other times, you’re just Drake Vestry, the man who kidnapped me,” she said flatly.
“I’m not the only one who kidnapped you. There are five other men.”
Myka thought she heard a little bit of frustration in his voice, and it surprised her. She would’ve thought he would want to take all of the kidnapping credit himself.
“There are five other men, and yet, I’m always tied to you.”
He was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “If I hadn’t kidnapped you and we had only met the one time at Rommel’s house, what would my nickname have been then?”
“You were already Mr. Gunshot Wound.”
“Thanks to you.”
“You insinuated that I didn’t know how to use a gun. I needed to set you straight,” she said through the darkness. She stared at the ceiling. “What nickname would you have given me?”
“I would tell you, but you can’t handle vulgarity, remember?” There was a playful quality in his tone that made Myka smile.
“Very funny.” She kicked her leg out, hitting him in the calf.
The joking feeling lingered between them, and the entire conversation made Drake seem more like a friend than an enemy. A good friend. Someone she could joke around with and tell all of her crazy thoughts and ideas to.
But Drake wasn’t in the friend zone.
Drake Vestry was supposed to be in the I-hate-you-with-every-fiber-of-my-being zone, at least that’s where Myka had put him the second he had kidnapped her, but every day her relationship with Drake got a little more confusing.
The wind howled outside. The powerful gusts whistled through the cracks in the boards and beat against the roof of the shack.
“What are you thinking about now?” Drake asked.
That was another friend-type thing to say.
Myka could ignore his question, pretend like she was asleep, but there was a strong urge inside of her to let her guard down, to tell Drake her stuff.
“I hate strong winds at night,” she blurted out. “It makes me feel like the roof is going to be ripped off, but it also reminds me of the night my mother left.” She swallowed, keeping her gaze up and away from him. “A storm had moved in, and the wind was really strong. At least, to an eight-year-old. I sat on my mom’s bed, watching her pack, begging her not to leave. She kept saying that she had to go and that I would understand when I was older. I still don’t understand.” She sucked in another breath, needing it to help her continue. “I followed my mom down the grand staircase of Tolsten House and to the front doors. She kissed me on top of my head and told me that she would come back for me. She walked to the waiting carriage. Her long black hair lifted in the wind, moving wildly in the air. The gusts took the purple skirt of her dress and blew it to the side, so I could see the outline of her body below her hip. I reached for her, but my maid held me back. I don’t remember asking to go with her, just asking her to stay. She climbed in the carriage, and the horses pushed through the wind, taking her away from Tolsten House.” Myka fidgeted with her fingers. “After a few days when she didn’t come back, I convinced myself that her carriage had been taken by the wind or blown over into a ditch. It had to be the wind’s fault that she hadn’t come back for me.”
Her story filled the space between them, and Myka wondered if Drake would comment or let her words hang in the air above them.
“Jarvis was there, too,” she said. “He got in the carriage with my mother.”
Drake turned his head to her. “Who?”
“The man who killed Princess Seran. He worked for my father. When I was a little girl, I gave him the nickname of Skunkman because of his white and black hair.”
She could feel Drake’s eyes on her but she didn’t move to look at him, just kept her head pointed to the ceiling.
“I haven’t seen him at Tolsten House in over a year.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know he was a bad man.”
“And now?” He asked softly as if words could tiptoe.
“Now I don’t know what to think.”
19
Myka
Birds chirped outside the window, singing their morning songs into the woods. A smile tugged on Myka’s lips as she listened to their melodic trills. It was a great way to wake up. Slowly she opened her eyes, and her smile faded. Drake Vestry slept inches from her. That’s what happens when two people sleep beside each other. At the beginning of the night, each person scoots as far over as possible, telling themselves to stay on the edge of their own cot, but by dawn, faces are inches apart, like see-every-smooth-curve-and-ridge-of-his-flawless-face inches apart.
Drake didn’t look like a kidnapper when he slept. Actually, he didn’t look like a kidnapper when he was awake either. He always looked handsome, fearless, and determined. Myka could easily picture him commanding an army, demanding respect despite his young age.
A few strands of his brown hair fell forward, hovering just above his eyelids. It would be so easy to brush the pieces of hair back from his forehead, but it would also be extremely inappropriate and intimate. The strands looked so light and tempting. She puffed a burst of air toward the wayward hair just to see if she could get it to float back to place, but that had been a terrible idea.
Drake stirred, and Myka immediately closed her eyes, pretending like she was asleep. That seemed like a better plan than being caught blowing on his face. If she could summon some drool right now, she would, but at the same time, she didn’t want to look ugly with her mouth wide open like she was dead to the world. That wasn’t attractive. Not that she wanted Drake to think that she was attractive. There was no logical reason why that would be important, but still, Myka wanted to look cute sleeping. Sleeping Beauty sleeping, that was the look she was going for. She tried to slow her breath even while her heart raced.
He shifted like he had turned his head to study her more fully. What did Drake see when he looked at her? Did he see Sleeping Beauty, or did he see her light freckles from too much time in the sun and the small blemish (okay, not so small) that had taken residence on her chin this week? His silence made her uncomfortable, and suddenly Myka didn’t like the idea of Drake Vestry staring at her. She let out an overdramatic yawn, and his head was already turned away from her when she opened her eyes. He sat up, then he untied the rope at his waist and stood, walking to the bucket of water they used for washing.
Myka stretched.
“After breakfast, I’m going to leave you in the shack for a little bit,” Drake said as he dried his face with a towel. Myka stared at him. He left her in the shack every day. Why had he announced it now like it was something new?
“I could come wherever you’re going,” she said, raising her shoulder. The last couple of days, Myka had watched from the crack in the boards as Drake walked deeper into the woods, and she wondered what was out there that was so important that it took him away from his prisoner.
He bent down, grabbing his shoes that were tucked beneath his cot. “No, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
Drake paused, lacing his shoes, and looked at her. “Because I don’t trust you. Since we’ve met, you’ve managed to shoot me, split my eye open, knee me in the groin several times, and stab me in the shoulder.”
She raised her eyebrows. “An impressive resume.”
Myka thought there was a hint of respect written across his face. Or
maybe she imagined it. She probably imagined it.
She swung her legs over the side of the cot so that she sat next to him. “Where will you be?” she asked, hoping to get a little more information.
“It doesn’t concern you.” He stood, pulling the hem of his black pants down so that they covered his black shoes.
“You have another woman out there, don’t you?” He gave her a pointed look, but she ignored it, continuing on. “Because as I told you before, when people sneak out they can only going one place…to their lover’s house.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, I have a lover out in the woods in the most remote part of Tolsten. You caught me,” he said dryly.
She shrugged as she bounced up from the cot, twisting her hair around and around, and then knotted it into a bun on top of her head. It wouldn’t stay without a tie. In fact, she’d be surprised if it lasted an hour. She bent down to put on her shoes, and when she came up, Drake was tying her pink hair tie around his arm.
“What are you doing?” she snapped at him.
“Tying my scarf on my arm.”
Drake clearly had some weird obsession with hair ribbons.
“What is it with you and that stupid hair tie? I’m the one who actually needs it.”
His lips turned downward. “Your hair looks fine.”
Myka’s eyes narrowed as her hands went to her hair, dramatically rubbing the top of the bun so that half of the strands fell out in a disorganized way.
She lifted her chin. “See. I need it.”
Drake scrunched his nose at her crazy hair. “You’re only hurting yourself with behavior like that.” He opened the door, holding it open for her. “Ready to go to breakfast?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure what else I would do with myself. The clothes I wore here are dirty. I don’t have a brush, a mirror, or even something to tie my hair with.”
He stared blankly back at her.
“What?” She blinked. “Does my hair bother you?”
The Stolen Princess: A YA Dystopian Romance (Desolation Book 3) Page 18