Page 89 of Lana Pecherczyk
“Whatever you say.” Ash hit River in the stomach again. Not as hard, but it still hurt on the heels of the earlier blow. Weirdly, though, River struggled to straighten this time. His head swam too much. In the end, he dropped to his knees.
“I feel a bit…” The campfire and cushions circled him.
“Don’t worry.” Ash’s voice sounded distant. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“What makesh you fink ’shat, prinsh-sh—” Fuck. Why couldn’t he talk properly?
“You heard your father. He has it all under control.”
Aw, shit.
The moonshine was spiked.
River faceplanted into a cushion.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Blake woke to gentle rocking and birdsong. Something click-clacked nearby while something else clip-clopped outside. The rhythmic sounds nearly lulled her back to sleep as she rolled over, hugging her pillow with a lazy smile.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
A horse?
Sunlight sliced across her face. She opened her eyes to a curved wood-slatted ceiling, and farther beyond her bed nook was the interior of an ornately decorated caravan. Strings of beads hung across the ceiling and clacked together with each sway. The sunlight in her eyes came from a clear strip atop a stained glass window above a kitchenette on the left. It cast colorful reflections over the polished wood surfaces of a dining booth against the right wall, cupboards, a chest on the floor, and several larger doors. Hopefully, one led to a bathroom.
Bloody hell. This habit of waking up in strange places needed to stop.
Blake rifled through her foggy brain for clues to how she ended up here. Her last memory was of being in River’s old room, hesitating over Ravi’s clothing selections. None had seemed the sort that a woman of substance would wear.But something had changed—the moonshine, perhaps, or the catharsis of stabbing dickface Jeff’s tree effigy, or Ravi, Sera, and Lark’s infectious enthusiasm. Her resistance had evaporated.
“Oh my god,” she mumbled. Did she flash her boobs at the new in-laws?
No time to ponder. Her bladder pulsed with urgency. She slipped from the bed and dashed over a pretty woven rug to the opposite end, where she opened the first door to reveal a tiny bathroom including a shower stall. The second door opened to a toilet.
Removing her pants proved challenging. The space was cramped, the van rocked, and layer upon folded layer of fabric had been wrapped around her like origami.
“The fuck?” She turned in the small cubicle, chasing her tail.
Another memory bubbled up.
“Lark’s an expert at forgetting her modesty shorts,”Sera had explained, refilling Blake’s cup.“Almost every pair of windways she owns is of the courtship variety.”
Easy access. Blake found the splits and separated them, cheering at the discovery of no modesty shorts beneath. She plonked down with a groan of relief.
“Fark, that feels good,” she moaned.
Christ. If she had waited any longer, she might have pissed her pants.
Looking down the length of her body, she finally took in the rest of the outfit. The fabric at her waist and ankles glittered with intricate beading. Pretty. The jewels were the sparkly sort that made her heart flutter. Silk crisscrossed over her breasts, lifting them into drool-worthy cleavage. The straps knotted behind her neck and left her midriff bare. Shimmering painted patterns emulated her Well-blessed markings on every inch of her exposed skin. Some lines became arrows pointing downward into her pants, others toward each breast.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, as flashes of memory entered her mind. Hadn’t Ravi said something about guiding River’s attention to all the right places?
Blake lifted her gaze and caught her reflection in a black glass pane over the tiny wash basin—messy hair, no makeup, no filter—nothing to hide behind.
She washed her hands and returned to the main cabin, arms folded beneath her breasts in case the straps gave way. This second pass across the van, she noticed more curious things. Fresh food in bowls and sacks, wicker baskets on the booth’s tabletop. Two steps from the bed, she froze.
River lay face down on the covers, fully clothed. His collar was crumpled at the back of his neck as if someone had grabbed him by the scruff and dumped him there. New beard growth peppered his square jaw. His blue-black hair lay disheveled, covering his eyes. The same luminous ink patterns decorated his skin.
