Page 5 of Taken in the Tree Farm
I circle wide, keeping to the shadows. She can't see me, but I can see her perfectly. The way her chest heaves with each breath. The way she keeps glancing over her shoulder, fear bright in her eyes. The way her bound hands clutch at her torn dress.
She's a mess. Disheveled and desperate and absolutely perfect.
I reach into the pack strapped to my thigh and pull out the string of Christmas lights I've been saving. I test them, letting them spark to life in my gloved hands. Red and white bulbs glow, casting crimson shadows.
These are going to look stunning wrapped around her.
Seraphina disappears into the candy workshop, and I pause, giving her a moment to catch her breath and think she's found safety. She needs a little time to think there’s hope. It makes the eventual realization so much sweeter.
I know she's watching through the window when I walk past. I can feel her gaze tracking my movement. Height. Build. The way I move.
She's analyzing her predator.
Good. Use that sharp mind, sugarplum. It won't save you, but I love that you’re trying.
I deliberately slow my pace, letting her see me in profile. Perhaps she’ll think maybe, justmaybe, I've lost her trail and kept walking past the warehouse.
Then I turn and head straight for the door.
The workshop is small, cluttered with props I had made specifically for this set. She's in the back corner, pressed behind the cauldron, holding her breath. Her dress gives off a faint glow from the rhinestones, making her position obvious.
Does she know I can see her? Does she understand how useless hiding is?
I let the moment stretch, savoring her fear. Then I speak, keeping my voice low and intimate.
"Found you."
The split second of frozen terror before she moves is exquisite. Then she's grabbing a prop candy cane and hurling it at me—spirit and fight even when cornered. I admire that about her. She wants to make me work for it.
The prop bounces off my chest harmlessly as she lunges for the tiny, child-sized door I had installed. Fast. Agile. But not fast enough.
I'm at the door in three strides, hand closing around her ankle as she tumbles through. The fabric of her fishnets tears in my grip. She kicks hard with her other foot, catching my wrist with enough force that I grunt and release her.
Letting her go is calculated. If I caught her now,here, it would end too quickly. She needs to run more. Needs to exhaust herself and feel the full weight of being hunted before I finally bring her down.
She scrambles away, abandoning her ruined slippers, and runs barefoot through the snow.
Perfect.
Now she's leaving tracks I can follow even more easily in the dark. Small footprints, toes digging in for grip, the pattern showing how tired she's getting. The snow must be agony on her bare feet—freezing, burning, making every step a test of will.
I take my time coiling the Christmas lights around my hand, watching her pink form disappear into the rows of evergreens. She's heading back toward the gingerbread house, probably hoping to lose me in the structures.
The hunt is about control—not just of her, but of myself. Every instinct screams to chase her down immediately, to tackle her into the snow and claim what's mine. But that would be crude. Inelegant.
She deserves better.
So I walk. Boots crunching through snow, deliberate and unhurried. Letting her hear me coming. Letting anticipation build until her nerves are razor-sharp.
The tree farm is a masterpiece at night. Lights strung through thousands of branches create layers of illumination—bright spots that blind, dark patches that hide. The gingerbread houses loom like fairy tale cottages, promising shelter that doesn't exist.
I built this labyrinth for one person.
Forher.
I round the corner of a gingerbread house and spot her pressed against the far side, chest heaving, bare feet buried in snow. She hasn't seen me yet. She hasn’t realized I've circled around to cut off her escape route.
I could take her now. Step out and end the chase.
