Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Let me go.” My voice breaks. “Please just let me go.”
“Let you go?” He shakes his head, something almost like desperation flickering across his features. “To your fucking death? There are ten kilometers of nothing but woods in every direction from here. You're not far from the cabin at all. You shouldn't have done this. I told you not to run.”
“I don't belong to you,” I say.
“Don't I know it.” He examines my ankle, his touch careful despite the anger radiating off him in waves. “Does it hurt here?” He presses gently on the top of my foot.
I shake my head, but when he presses on a particularly tender spot, I cry out.
“Ow!”
“Probably sprained,” he says grimly. “Maybe worse. You can't walk on it.”
“I don't care. I'll crawl if I have to. Anything to get away from you.”
His eyes snap to mine. In the dim light from the solar lamp above, they're almost gleaming like polished silver. “You'll do no such thing.”
“You can't keep me. You can't—”
His voice is a band of steel. “I can and I will.”
He stands, and before I can process what's happening, he's scooping me up. One arm is under my knees, the other around my back, lifting me just like he did before, as if I weigh nothing.
I struggle, frustration spilling over as I try to beat at his chest with my fists, but it's like hitting stone. “Put me down!”
“No,” he says simply, turning back toward the cabin. His stride is steady and sure, and my protests die in my throat.
Ten kilometers in every direction.
The least I can do is let him bring me back, have some food, and tend to my ankle. And then next time… Next time I'll plan better.
He adjusts me in his arms, shifting my weight, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how I must feel to him. How heavy I am. I'm not a small girl—I'm curvy and soft, and he can probably feel every damn kilo.
The embarrassment burns hotter than my anger.
“Please put me down,” I say, quieter now. “Please? You can't—”
“Enough.” The word comes out sharp, and his arms tighten around me. “If you keep fighting me, you're going to hurt yourself worse.”
“I don't care.”
“But I do.” His voice drops, possessive in a way that makes my stomach flip. “I care very much, which is why you will never do this again, Bianca.”
I draw in a deep breath, desperate for him to see reason. “I'm too heavy, Ashland,” I whisper.
He stops walking abruptly, and I feel the tension coil through his entire body. “Lass,” he says, giving my thigh a warning squeeze. “Do I look like the type of man who can't carry a little thing like you?”
I don't realize I'm burying my burning face in his shoulder until I feel the rough fabric of his shirt pressed against my cheek. I jerk my head up, but it's too late. I catch the satisfied quirk of his lips tipped upward.
The cabin comes into view far too quickly. No, did I really only get that far? All that running, all that pain, and I barely made it a kilometer from where I started.
He carries me up the steps and through the door. The warmth inside hits me like a wall, and I start shaking uncontrollably.
He sets me down on the couch, and I immediately try to stand, needing to maintain some sense of control. But his hand on my shoulder pushes me back down with gentle, implacable force.
“Stay.”
“I'm not a dog.”
“Then stop acting like one who runs into traffic,” he snaps. He shakes his head and disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a towel and a first aid kit. He kneels in front of me, his expression hard. “Trying to escape into woods you don't know, without proper clothing or supplies. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”
“Anything's better than what's happening to me here.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I realize how childish I sound. Yes, I'm kidnapped, but he's fed me, given me clothes, and kept me warm and safe. It's not like he's abusing me. The thought makes me feel even more confused.
He starts removing my ruined flats, and I wince at even the slightest jostle of my ankle.
“Shit,” he mutters, examining the swelling. “Poor girl. You really hurt yourself, didn't you?”
His movements are efficient and controlled, but I can see the tension in his broad shoulders and the way his jaw keeps clenching.
“'Better than what's happening to you here, eh?” He slides the shoe off my swollen ankle with a care that contradicts the anger laced through his features. “You really think stumbling around in the dark, injured and freezing, is better than being here with me?”
“Yes.” I try to pull my foot away, but his grip tightens—not painful, but firm. “You're holding me prisoner. Of course anything's better than this.”