Page 13 of Recurve Ridge

Pity I seemed to have misplaced those glittery red heels.

The rustic room offered more space than I’d given the cabin credit for from the outside. AnIt’s bigger on the insidecomment rolled around my mind, but I rejected the humor as inappropriate when I should be planning my escape.

Rough-hewn walls suggested a hand-built structure, confirming my first assessment. It didn’t take too much brainpower to know that the owner used his personal well of formidable strength to construct the place himself. Paired with his obvious stubborn streak, the man and his house had become endearing in an odd sort of way.

Woven mats in tans and whites lifted an otherwise dark room that provided relief from the glare of the overcast sky outside viewed through a slim window above the bed. Basic wood furniture filled a few available spots—a single bedside table sat beside the king-sized bed I slept in, and a simple chair in the corner. I wondered if Everest had made those too.

The icicle-framed windowsill housed a collection of hand-carved items. None were perfect, though each had been created with the same painstaking attention to detail. A darkened doorway led off to one side, either a wardrobe or bathroom. Given the climate and location, I guessed the latter.

No one who lived out here required more than a few changes of clothing.

The austere existence suited the giant of a man, a polar opposite to my life experience, though I never considered myself a princess. The image of a fluffy frou-frou dress flew to the forefront of my mind and transformed into a high-end red-carpet-worthy ensemble in my vision. No, princess I had never been—would never be—which was the way I liked it.

Besides, a princess had a factor of innocence, and after the last forty-eight hours plus—I had lost count of the days in this bleak house—I could no longer claim that in any capacity.

Bile rose in my throat. I clutched the coverlet in whitened knuckles and prepared to launch myself out of the bed, praying I’d make it to the bathroom in time. If it turned out I got it wrong and the darkened room was, in fact, a closet, I’d have some explaining to do.

A laugh, alien to my headspace, bubbled in my chest. Rather than war with the reeling sensation in my stomach, the burst of impromptu emotion settled. As the urge to be sick faded, I rolled beneath the heavy quilt, which emitted a cloud of all-male scent.

I inhaled a deep breath filled with the scent of pine and leather and black coffee. A sense of peace washed over me. My heavy eyelids drew shut, leaving me in a weighted void I didn’t try to fight, surrounded by Everest’s personal brand of pure, wild mountain maleness.

* * *

Dust motes swirledaround the room in a delicate dance when my eyes cracked open an unfathomable amount of time later. Sleep had become a timeless void where I fell endlessly. Thin slivers of windows sat above the bed, letting in little light and leaving me guessing at the time.

Grit itched the corners of my eyes. I swept the remnants of slumber away while faux fairies pirouetted between the narrow, slanted sunbeams that filtered through the unadorned windows a little longer. Their presence softened the unforgiving and unapologetic male lines of Everest’s room.

My dreamless, uninterrupted sleep gave my brain time to process the last few days. I’d lost track of time during my headlong dash, with only the few hideous flashes of grabbing hands that refused to leave me alone to backfill the absent hours. Though still sickened from my ordeal, sleep appeared to have removed the immediate edge from my shock. My stomach rumbled, leaving me in hope that, despite my brokenness, some remnant of myself might be salvageable as I smiled at my body’s ability to KBO.

I ran my hands over my stomach and limbs in an instinctive check-in, cataloging bruises and swelling in various places.Still naked.That hadn’t changed while I slept. To my relief, the aches seemed to be mostly flesh based, though some delved deeper than others. I didn’t suspect a single break in any bone.

The soles of my feet throbbed from a thousand pinpricks from my scramble over the forest floor, and my wrists and ankles stung where I’d been tethered to my boss’s table forentertainment purposes.

Hesitantly, I reached between my legs. My breath seized on a panic attack in the making at the concept of checking. The sensitive flesh there was still swollen, and as I probed a little deeper, I discovered that, although sore and tender, nothing had been torn or ripped the way I’d expected. Everything seemed revoltingly normal. My head couldn’t grasp that. The only casualties were my innocence and honor with a side serving of impending fear that wouldn’t quit.

Minor complaints.

A dose of lingering horror permeated my mind at the discovery. I leaned back into the hard pillow with a long sigh that verged on a sob, grateful for its staunch support.

“Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the… something something,” I muttered, out of tune and out of memory for the right lyrics of the childhood ditty that evaded me.

“A woman in my bed is a new occurrence for me,” Everest remarked, breaking into my solitary assessment. “The boys don’t mind sharing when I choose to rest. Or not.” His ambiguous comment charged the meager air in the room between us.

My gaze snapped to where he leaned against the doorway. I winced at the involuntary reaction, my heart pounding at the huge shadow he presented, then slowing as I registered his voice. While my body had begun to heal, my bruised brain swirled like a dirty martini after a hard night at a dingy bar.

I pressed my hands to my temples, my skin flaring at the sensation of cool mountain air after the warmth of the weighted blanket, and I squeezed my eyes shut to prevent the room from swimming around me. “Oww, Everest.”

He huffed a sound that could have been a laugh. “I didn’t mean to make you move. I’m sorry,” he murmured.

That he could speak in such a soft voice despite his giant barrel of a chest surprised me. Steady footfalls announced his entry as Everest crossed the room. I shifted beneath the blanket, burrowing deeper on instinct. Shivers not unlike the sort that afflicted me in the forest rippled across my skin despite the weighted quilt’s warmth as I sucked in shallow breath after breath.

He’s not going to hurt you. He’s safe. He brought you here?—

And undressed me, if removing his pine-and-mountain-scented jacket counted. Washed me, looked at me, and touched my body without permission.

Not that I’d been conscious back then to give consent.

This never would have happened if I stayed in Britain.

---