Fable of Happiness Book One Page 8

  I squirmed and tried to push him off me. It was like pushing granite. “I haven’t given you anything.”

  “Are you deaf? I just told you. You gave me everything the second you entered my valley.”

  “I did nothing of the sort. Perhaps, you’re the one who’s deaf. I said let me go. I’ll leave. I’ll get out of your home. You won’t have to—”

  “Listen to me.” His voice turned black with rage. “I’m not letting you go. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s easy. Just open the door, and I’ll climb away. You’ll never see me again.”

  “And why would I do that?” His hips once again rocked into me. My breath caught as he framed my face with his elbows, his nails scratching on the wall by my ears. “You’re mine now. Why would I let you go before knowing how you feel? Why would I let you run back to whoever else is out there? Why would I give you the chance to ruin me?”

  Tears glassed my vision. Sweat broke out beneath my windbreaker.

  He was too close, too strong, too angry.

  His cock never stopped wedging against my belly—an aggressive threat as well as an unwanted link between us.

  “Stop. Touching. Me.”

  Dropping his nose, he sniffed my throat. “It’s taking every inch of self-control not to do more than just touch you.” He shuddered and inhaled me again. “Fuck, it’s taking everything that I am.”

  My hands scrambled for purchase on his chest, clawing at his scarred skin. I couldn’t push him off me. I hated that I couldn’t move him. I’d always been strong—far stronger than many girls—yet shoving him did nothing. Nothing!

  Furious frustration rippled down my spine. “Stop!”

  His answer was a gentle lick of his tongue from my collarbone to my jaw.

  I shivered and fought. “I. Said. Stop!”

  “I should’ve killed you.” He pulled back. His eyes snared mine, too close to fully focus. “It would’ve been better for both of us.”

  “Please—” I turned my head to the side. I didn’t want this. Despite the weapon I’d acknowledged and the belief that I could play tricks to earn my freedom, I knew now I wasn’t equipped.

  I wasn’t brave enough to use sex as a way free. Sex was a landmine. Sex with him would eradicate all my rights, my freedoms, and my sanities.

  If he took from me, he’d take everything.

  He’d steal every scrap of who I was and leave me nothing in return.

  His hips thrust against my belly.

  He groaned through parted lips. His entire face went slack as if the sensation completely undid him.

  Having him take pleasure from me without my consent—having him use me when I’d said no made my skin crawl and my heart race and my bruised throat throb with injustice. “Stop.”

  He grunted as his hips thrust deeper, driving my spine into the stone wall. “Fuck, I can’t.” It was as if something snapped inside him. “I can’t.” He drove against me again. “I won’t.”

  He sounded wretched and afraid.

  A direct contradiction to his overpowerment and abuse.

  “God, you feel—” Throwing his head back, he thrust again, rolling his hips, forcing every hard inch of himself against me. “Oh, Christ.” He spasmed and let go, driving again and again, short and vicious, imprinting his heat, his need.

  “Fuuuuck.”

  He rutted a final time into me, his body bowing tight, his breath catching. His groan sounded eerily similar to the suffering creature from last night. The same animal that’d woken me up and made me wish to seek it out and put it out of its misery.

  A sound that was bruised and broken.

  He jerked as an orgasm shook him. He rode out the waves of pleasure.

  I didn’t look at him.

  Couldn’t stomach watching him come apart.

  I’d met him when he was naked. And now, he climaxed while fully clothed. An enigma. A riddle. A stranger I was too afraid to figure out.

  When he grunted a final time, his body switched from aggressive to almost apologetic. Stumbling away from me, he dragged both hands over his face.

  I slid down the wall, hugging my shaking knees to my chest. A damp spot now existed on my belly, leaving behind his mark.

  I hated him.

  Hated him.

  The front of his slacks was stained, and his body continued to jerk with pleasure as he dropped his hands and stared at me.

  What an absolute bastard.

  What a messed-up, dangerous man.

  He didn’t speak as he glanced down at his groin and noticed the stain of what he’d just done. His jaw clenched until every tendon in his neck stood out. His face turned thunderous. For a second, he raised a fist and looked like he’d strike me to death.

  But then, a wash of absolute shame coated his face. A shadow of conflict and shyness. With a snarl, he stormed to the door.

  Fumbling for the key, he wrenched it open and almost fell through it.

  He slammed it shut a second later, followed by the scratch of metal and the clunk of a lock.

  Sighing hard and giving in to the hot wash of tears, I rested my chin on my knees and cried.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OUT OF ALL THE things I’d done.

  Out of all the years I’d been alive, and all the things I’d seen, experienced, and endured, the worst was closing my eyes. Worse than masturbating on that girl. Worse than all the black images of fucking her against her wishes.

  I’d lost control.

  I knew that.

  But in the darkness, all alone, I couldn’t focus on that. Couldn’t come to terms with how easily I’d broken.

  If I closed my eyes, the nightmares came.

  If I went to sleep, the memories were waiting.

  If I let myself relive what I’d done, the thirst for her became fucking unbearable.

  Night for me was the worst kind of torture. Sleep would always be my nemesis.

  Therefore, instead of seeking rest and willingly giving myself over to the blackest pits of my mind, I stayed awake.

  I lay in my single, sunken bed with just a worn sheet over my nakedness and stared at the lacy cobwebs in the rafters.

  My hands never unfurled.

  My body never relaxed.

  I lay in a state of explosive readiness. Ready to slaughter anyone who came after the girl imprisoned in my cellar. Ready to leap from this room and spill blood in the corridors.

  She couldn’t leave.

  I knew that.

  She was locked below. Completely captive. Her very existence relied on my generosity.

  I could keep her for however long I wanted, or I could kill her and end the misery she’d created, or I could fuck her until I cured my sudden insanity.

  Regardless if help did come for her, she was mine. Like I’d told her in the cell, this was her fault. She’d trespassed. So didn’t that give me the right to do whatever I wanted?

  Seriously, what are you thinking?

  I groaned and glowered at the shadows.

  Keeping her was an inconvenience. Keeping her meant double the work, double the preparation, and a whole shit ton of personal pain.

  But I couldn’t let her go, either.

  No one could know about this place.

  No one.

  I sat up in bed, checking for the millionth time that the locks on my door were still in place and the warning alarm was still rigged against my window. Just because no one had come to find her in over fourteen hours didn’t mean they wouldn’t come. That they weren’t waiting for my guard to drop.

  But that was the thing. I’d learned the hard way that to survive, you couldn’t stop looking over your shoulder. I’d been doing it for eleven years. I’d become a master at it.

  No one would touch her without my permission.

  Running my fingers over one of the three knives resting in grabbing distance, I glanced at the other two. One beneath my pillow, one on the floor, and one on my current book.

  If more people came, I was
ready.

  And if they don’t?

  If it’s just you and her?

  Alone?

  For days? Months? Years?

  I gritted my teeth.

  Then we’re both royally fucked.

  Tonight had shown just how weak I was. Just how screwed up I’d become by denying natural urges. I’d broken within moments of being in that cell with her. I’d gone down there to demand answers, yet instead of a calm interrogation, I’d lost all sense of who I was.

  I shattered every shred of discipline.

  I’d become like them.

  I drove my head into the pillow and bunched the sheet over my thighs.

  Just because nightmares couldn’t find me didn’t mean the memories of what I’d done to her didn’t. They ignored my command to stay the hell away. They bombarded me with sensation.

  Memories of how delicious she’d felt as I’d driven my cock against her came fast.

  Her vulnerability made my balls ache to claim her.

  And I knew, right down to my rotten soul, that the next time I saw her, I’d want more. I’d take more. I’d use her, with or without her consent, and that left me hard, hurting, and horribly eager to storm down the stairs and command her to her knees.

  * * * * *

  Standing in the kitchen, I fought against necessity and nastiness.

  I was hungry, starving actually, after not consuming a thing yesterday. And if I was hungry, that meant my prisoner would be equally malnourished.

  Which led to the dilemma I now faced.

  If I fed her, that meant I intended to keep her alive.

  If I didn’t, that meant I was destining her to die.

  Both scenarios came with ramifications that I wasn’t prepared to deal with on an empty stomach after a sleepless night.

  Stalking into the walk-in pantry, I grabbed the rest of the loaf of sourdough rye bread I’d made two days ago. Disformed and stale, it wasn’t exactly enjoyable. It was moderately edible, and for the past few years, that was good enough for me.

  In the beginning, I’d eaten like a king.

  The cellar once had another purpose instead of housing trespassing girls. It’d been teeming with food. Canned vegetables, huge sacks of rice and potatoes, barrels of sugar and salt, shelves upon shelves of chocolates, wines, and liquors.

  There’d been enough rations to last almost four years. I’d stretched certain things, done without on others, and began the necessary shift from eating prepared grains and gathered ingredients into growing my own.

  Thank fuck the owner of this place had entered the wilderness prepared. Once a year, they’d have supplies brought in. Huge crates of linen, soaps, juices, savory, and sweet. On top of all the frozen, smoked, dried, and packeted food, they’d imported seeds of every fruit and vegetable. Stocked the library with every book on horticulture, employed gardeners and chefs, and straddled the convenience of modern living with the old ways of cultivating the land.

  Those deliveries had stopped long ago, and I’d learned how to stay alive through trial and error. My body had been used as a tester on more than one occasion, confirming what was palatable and what was not. And now, I’d become fairly proficient at providing for one man through four seasons.

  I had a system in place.

  Chores that needed to be completed each month. Checklists that couldn’t be ignored. And all that had now been thrown into chaos with an additional mouth to feed.

  Wrenching open the ancient fridge that ran off hydropower thanks to the swift currents found in the cave system, I yanked out fresh strawberries, a bowl of crunchy snow peas, and a few sticks of last week’s celery.

  Placing equal measure of food onto the fancy plates where the gold leaf had long since washed off, I tore up the rest of the bread and carried the two meals down the stairs and to the cellar.

  The instant my bare feet landed on the damp concrete of the lower level, a chill shot up my spine.

  The heat of the summer didn’t reach down here.

  I was suddenly glad I’d slipped into my shirt and slacks, deciding clothing would be a better alternative than going to visit her naked. However, I hated these clothes even more than usual after last night. They were a reminder of what I’d done. The fact that I’d had to scrub away the stain of pleasure. That the slacks were still damp from coming against her—it all shouted a message that I wasn’t in control. Of fucking anything.

  A pounding began in my head.

  Just get rid of her.

  Why are you feeding her?

  Why are you delaying the inevitable?

  Placing both plates on the ground, I pulled out the key and unlocked the padlock.

  I had no answers to those questions, so I ignored them.

  The faintest of scurrying inside made my ears prick. What had she been doing all night? Had she set a trap for me?

  Rolling my eyes at my stupidity, I curled my hand around the handle. I should’ve checked her for additional weapons when I’d thrown her in here. I should’ve smashed that cell phone, regardless if it was completely useless. I should’ve stripped her down and investigated every inch of her to make sure she had nothing that could hurt me.

  Yet another reason you should stop this nonsense and kill her.

  You’re overlooking things.

  You’re messing up.

  Bending, I gathered up the plates before wedging my foot against the door. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming in.”

  Kicking the door, I braced for pain or her attempt at escape.

  Instead of her racing toward me with a knife or shoving past me to the stairs, she merely blinked from where she sat cross-legged against the wall. The cell phone with its pointless antenna rested beside her. I would’ve expected technology to have improved in the decade and a bit since I’d been gone from society, but judging by that piece of shit, it seemed as if the world had gone backward.

  Stepping into her prison, I kicked the door shut behind me.

  What the fuck was I supposed to do now?

  Offer her food? Pretend this was normal?

  Smile?

  Clearing my throat, I braced my shoulders and moved toward her.

  She flinched and looped her hands together. Her eyelashes glittered in the harsh electrical light. Her eyes never strayed from my face while her body pretended to be non-threatening, sitting on the floor. However, every muscle twitched with tension.

  I knew that pose.

  I’d mastered that pose.

  And I knew that look, too.

  I’d worn it. I’d seen it. I didn’t need her to tell me that she hated me, feared me, and wanted me to die in equal measure.

  “Here.” Placing the plate on the ground, I shoved it toward her. It slid across the concrete with a clunk, the bread tumbling into a shallow puddle. I scowled and reached to pluck it out before it could get too soggy. One of the many rules I’d learned here was you never wasted food. Ever.

  She watched me carefully as I placed the bread back on her plate. A little bit of water never hurt anyone.

  Holding her stare, I sat cross-legged before her, ignoring the cold concrete against my ass.

  She bit her bottom lip, her eyes turning glassy as she stared at the bread. She trembled and sniffed as if food had the power to make her cry. Dismay coated her face as she glanced from the bread to the red juiciness of the strawberries that I’d tended, grown, and harvested.

  Her hunger was obvious.

  Her joy at seeing a basic feast sparked a cord of comradery inside me.

  She wanted something I’d created.

  Her desire for the breakfast I’d offered made possession flash through my heart. It silenced my hate just for a second, and with a quick snatch, I swapped her bread for mine.

  I did it automatically.

  Some long-dead chivalry raising its head despite my current lack of social skills.

  Her head snapped up, long blond hair slipping over her shoulder.

  And that was all it fucking
took.

  A single strand of hair.

  A simple quirk of attention. Her eyes on me. Her awareness on me. Her heat so close. Her body so near.

  Shit.

  My cock swelled and pressed against my slacks, switching my starvation once again to her. A quaking desperation cracked my bones. I needed to shove the food away, strip her down, and wrestle her to the floor.

  I’d stared at her last night, searching for tricks and lies. I’d been too focused on survival to see her for what she truly was.

  But I saw now.

  I saw her.

  A woman.

  A woman who stunned me fucking breathless with beauty I’d refused to see. Either my eyes were unused to seeing anything but my river-cast reflection or I’d forgotten what females looked like because I swore on the final shreds of my self-control that she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

  Leaf-scattered hair, big green and brown swirling eyes, pink lips, dirt-smudged cheeks, and a body that wasn’t feeble or fragile but had muscle tone, power, and a stark warning that if I was going to take what I wanted, I’d have to fight for it.

  Images instantly sprang to mind.

  Of her nails on my skin. Of her teeth on my throat. Of her legs spreading as I subdued her to the ground and—

  Stop!

  My hands shook as I dropped my eyes.

  Don’t.

  My nostrils flared as I struggled with self-control. I balanced on a knife-edge of staying where I was or launching myself at her.

  And then her voice cut through my raging pain. Soft and tentative, grateful. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  The shock of her kind tone wrenched my head up. My cock stopped trying to buckle me beneath its command. I sucked in a breath. “Do what?”

  She licked her pink lips. “Swap the bread.”

  Her thankfulness sent me reeling. No one had ever been thankful. No one had ever used that tone toward me. No one. I cleared my throat, scrambling for forgotten words. “It was wet.”

  “I’ve eaten worse.” Raising a shoulder, she half-heartedly shrugged. “I camp a lot. I don’t always make an effort to cook decent food. I don’t care about dirt or rain.”

  Was she talking to me?

  Was this a trick?

  Some sort of ploy to make me interact with her?