Page 12 of Taken in the Tree Farm
Her eyes go wide as she realizes what I'm planning. I loop the lights around one wrist, then reach for the other?—
She moves fast, ducking under my arm and trying to slip away. I catch her immediately, but she's slippery, desperate, fueled by adrenaline and panic. She twists out of my grip and stumbles toward the door.
I could catch her. Should catch her. But this game isn't over yet, and part of me wants to see how far she'll get. I can give her one more run before I finally bring her down for good.
So I let her reach the door. Let her fumble with the lock and get it open and stumble out into the snow.
Then I follow.
The cold air hits like a slap after the warmth of the workshop, but I barely feel it. My blood is running too hot, my focus too sharp. She's running again—barefoot, exhausted, probably in pain—but she's still running.
God, I love her for that.
She doesn't get far. Maybe twenty feet before her legs give out and she crashes to her knees in the snow. She tries to get up, arms shaking with effort, but her body has reached its limit.
I walk toward her slowly, Christmas lights still coiled in my hand. The distorted music continues through the speakers, and fresh snow falls around us.
She looks up as I approach, and the expression on her face is complicated. Fear is still there, but it's been joined by something else. Exhaustion. Resignation. And underneath it all, that persistent arousal.
"I can't," she says, voice breaking. "I can't run anymore."
I kneel in the snow in front of her, close enough to touch. "I know."
"Please." Her bound hands reach toward me, and I'm not sure if she's pushing me away or pulling me closer. "I don't understand what's happening. I don't understand why my body?—"
"Shh." I cup her face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. "You don't need to understand. Not yet."
She leans into my touch despite herself, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When they open again, there's something raw and vulnerable in them.
"What do you want from me?" she whispers.
I lean in, my forehead almost touching hers. "Everything."
Then I stand, scooping her up in my arms before she can protest. She's light, even soaked and trembling, and she doesn't fight as I carry her back toward the workshop.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks, though I think she already knows.
"Back inside," I say. "We're not done playing yet, sugarplum. Not even close."
She shivers in my arms—from cold, from fear, from anticipation—and I feel her fingers curl into my jacket, holding on even as every instinct probably tells her to fight.
The workshop doors stand open, firelight spilling out into the snowy night. I carry her across the threshold and kick the doors shut behind us.
The lock clicks.
I'm going to take my time wrapping and unwrapping my present.
CHAPTER 5
SERAPHINA
The warmth hits me like a brick when he carries me back inside.
I should fight. Should kick and scratch and scream. But my body has nothing left. My limbs feel like lead, muscles trembling with exhaustion. The cold has seeped so deep into my bones that the heat from the fireplace actually hurts, pins and needles spreading through frozen flesh.
He sets me down on my feet near the fire, but keeps one arm around my waist—steadying me or restraining me, I'm not sure which. Probably both.
My legs nearly buckle. Only his grip keeps me upright.
