Page 18 of Captive Souls

I should’ve ignored it. Even if she accidently chopped a finger off. That wasn’t my problem. Stone hadn’t specified whether she needed all of her digits, though I supposed that he’d be unhappy to find her maimed.

He was all about appearances, so he’d want a shiny, flawless wife, which I understood he could get out of Piper. Once I sucked all the vibrancy and will to live out of her.

I sighed and went to the dirty window that looked out at the overgrown yard where I’d seen a stump the previous inhabitant had used to chop wood.

The place had been abandoned for years. In the scant amount of time I’d had, I’d scouted it then done my research on the locals. I’d found someone, recently out of prison—rape and aggravated assault—and had paid him handsomely to outfit the cabin with what was needed. Then, ensuring that he hadn’t had time to open his mouth about the job done, I killed him.

He’d done a subpar job—everything was still overgrown, and the linens for the bed looked cheap and worn. But he’d obviously gotten wood to be chopped, just not chopped it himself.

Something that would’ve irritated me if not for the vision out the window. Piper, fluidly moving the axe up and down, a thin sheen of sweat already shining on her brow, making her chocolate-brown hair stick to her forehead.

She was not petite, not with the hills of her curves. But her body appeared delicate, not seemingly strong enough to lift the axe over her head, let alone use it to cleanly chop wood in two.

But that’s what she was doing. With confidence that told me she’d done this before. I watched, fucking entranced at the window, like some voyeur.

I’d done basic research on Piper. Surface level. Her job—kindergarten teacher. Her finances—enough to pay her bills and survive in Manhattan. Barely. Her social life—friends, but none who would cause me trouble. No boyfriend.

I hadn’t had time to go further into her past, medical history, childhood, like I might’ve. It was all necessary. Information was power. If I was going to break her, I needed to know which tools to bring, which soft spots to probe.

I’d mistakenly assumed a kindergarten teacher who had lived her entire life in New York would easily crumble in the Appalachian Mountains.

I’d been wrong.

And watching her, the way she moved, still hearing her fucking laugh echoing through the empty parts of me, I knew I was in a lot of fucking trouble.

Piper

I was exhausted. Chopping the wood was a huge part of it. Despite my snarky comment, I was not a huge gym goer. I liked my runs. Pounding the pavement, the burn in my legs, the high in my blood, the fresh air in my lungs.

I ran daily. Which meant I was physically fit in the cardiovascular sense, at least. But it had been a long time since I’d chopped wood. Luckily, it was like riding a bike. I’d gotten the handle of the axe, found the right angle, pressure and impact to slice the wood, but my shoulders screamed after an hour or so.

We likely didn’t need as much wood as I chopped. Or I told myself I wouldn’t be there long enough to need that much wood. But the only other option was to either wander around the woods or stay in the cabin with Knox.

The latter wasn’t a possibility. I couldn’t. His presence overwhelmed the small space, suffocating me. He scared me. A lot. Which was his intended purpose, I assumed. But more than that I was … curious about him, something inside me responded to him. The darkness seeping from him.

One thing I did not need to stoke was some kind of fucked-up Stockholm syndrome.

By the time the sun had completely set, I was soaked in sweat, the crisp air chilling me down to my marrow. The pile of wood beside me was impressive and my entire body groaned with exertion.

Not just from the chopping, but because of the tense way I’d been holding myself since seeing Knox in Central Park. My nervous system had been in a state of fight-or-flight, so it was inevitable that I would crash.

I snatched handfuls of fitful sleep during the drive, but never relaxed enough to let myself be pulled into a deep state of unconsciousness. Not with Knox a few feet from me in the car.

It took all my effort to drag myself into the cabin, dim light pouring out of it. It was force of will alone that allowed me to carry in some wood.

The small space smelled of food, Knox’s back to me at the stove.

The sight made my step stutter. Well, that and the exhaustion.

It was such a benign, domestic task. A human task.

The sight shouldn’t have been shocking, but it was as if I’d walked into the cabin and saw a grizzly bear holding a spatula in front of a sizzling pan.

My captor was cooking. For us, presumably. Or maybe not. Maybe his goal was to starve me. Force me to watch him eat.

Maybe that was Stone’s plan to get my submission.

My stomach growled and turned at the same time.

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