Page 70 of Captive Souls

We were stuck in a kind of purgatory of our own making. It was utter torture. I was hyperaware of my every movement, every word I said, every gesture. Knox watched me like a hawk, his demeanor locked down tight. He’d gone back to speaking in monosyllabic tones and only when forced. No more admissions came from him. I didn’t think he had any left.

Me, I had a few, though. Secrets and scars still hidden deep.

My need for Knox was a living, hungry thing, desperate to consummate … whatever it was between us.

I had never been afraid to make the first move with men I wanted. Granted, those were never men I really wanted; they were men I talked myself into wanting because they were the appropriate choice.

Not a threat.

Knox was most definitely a threat. What if I reached out to touch him, and he crushed my hand? What if I gave myself over to him, and he crushed my heart?

So we danced awkwardly—or I should say,Idanced awkwardly since there was nothing awkward about Knox. He was ever graceful in that predatory way of his. Never unsure. Never afraid.

But I could see it, the added tension he carried in his shoulders, the lines of his eyes. And though we didn’t cuddle in bed, I’d definitely brushed up against the length of him—by accident—and felt the full width and girth of his need.

He was still recovering from the gunshot wound. I had been worried about some kind of infection setting in, since our environment was not sterile, and I was most certainly not a doctor. He let me look at it daily, change the dressing and clean it out. But not with his shirt off. He would unbutton the top of the button-ups he’d now taken to wearing to expose the area to me, but nothing more.

It was as if he was hiding something from me. I didn’t know what. He was a muscular demigod—or devil, if we were going for that kind of metaphor. I knew his torso was carved with muscle because I saw the outline of it. Honed and chiseled to be a weapon, I considered him a work of art even clothed. He definitely didn’t have anything to be ashamed of.

Then again, what he’d told me of his childhood—the one that was stolen from him—it could have been something related to that. To nakedness, feeling dirty or wrong.

I’d chewed over that for a long time. Sex very well could be a complicated thing for him. He’d never found pleasure in it, hadn’t he said that? From his perspective, perhaps there was nowhere for us to go from here. My need for him might not have been the same as his for me, and I wasn’t going to try to sate it if it damaged him even a little.

I’d been mulling over this yet again as I sat in the garden, watching the sun set.

Knox had been on a supply run earlier in the day and had forbade me from helping him with the bags. He’d done it rather meanly, if I was honest. Every interaction we had now had a brutal edge that hadn’t been there before. He’d been cold but never cruel. Now he cared about me enough to be cruel.

He didn’t want to accept help which would communicate that he was weak.

I rolled my eyes.

Men.

Even though he considered himself to be vastly different from the garden variety male, there were a lot of things that weren’t too different at all.

I stood, dusting dirt from my jeans, reasoning that he’d had sufficient time to do all the things he needed to do, without the help of a woman who would endanger his masculinity.

Plus, I was hungry, masculinity be damned. My stomach rumbled as I entered the cabin, and the delicious scent of whatever he was cooking invaded my senses. Mushrooms, onions, herbs. His cooking talents continued to impress and enchant me. Not once had he accepted my offer to cook. He hadn’t even responded to my offers, actually. He just gave me a withering glare then turned back to the stove.

Maybe it was a control thing. That’s what made the most sense given what I’d learned. But I had secretly liked to think of it being him wanting to take care of me in a way he was capable.

And my secret might’ve proved to be correct when I saw why he’d been so cagey about letting me help with anything from the supply run.

He’d been planning something. For me.

The bed had fresh sheets on it, crisp and dark-colored, inviting. Nothing like the old, threadbare sheets I’d been sharing with him the past week.

My intestines dropped to my feet, looking at that bed. At the singular meaning those sheets could’ve communicated. That something was going to happen between them.

My womb clenched at the very thought, nerves, fear and desire a fiery cocktail.

He could’ve just been sick of the sheets from before. He was a man who liked the finer things, if the quality of his clothing was anything to go by. But my intuition told me that wasn’t the reason. Not when combined with what he’d done to the rest of the cabin.

My eyes swept over the table, the vase of wildflowers in the middle of it, the food steaming on plates. Two glasses were full of red liquid, an expensive looking wine bottle sitting between them.

"Youdid this?” I asked, my voice breathy.

I felt as if I’d walked into a fever dream, a fantasy that was too impossible to be real. Could this be Knox …wooing me?

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