Page 14 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out breathy, uncertain.
"Taking care of you." He lifts one foot gently, examining the damage. His jaw tightens. "Fuck. You really ran yourself ragged, didn't you?"
There's something almost like concern in his voice, which makes no sense. He's the one who made me run. Who chased me until my feet bled and my body gave out.
He reaches for something else in the chest—a first aid kit—and begins cleaning my feet with surprising gentleness. The antiseptic stings, making me hiss, but his touch remains careful, methodical.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask.
"Because you're hurt." He says it like it's obvious, like he's not the reason I'm hurt in the first place.
I watch him work, my mind struggling to reconcile the predator from the chase with this man who's bandaging my feet. His hands are large, calloused, but they're gentle as they wrap soft gauze around my damaged skin.
"There," he says finally, sitting back on his heels. "Better?"
I don't answer. Ican'tanswer. Because nothing about this makes sense.
He rises slowly, and suddenly he's towering over me again. The blankets have slipped from my shoulders, pooling around my waist, leaving my upper body exposed in the torn costume. The bodice is barely holding together, rhinestones missing, one strap hanging loose.
His eyes drag over me slowly, taking in every detail. The torn tulle. The shredded fishnets. The way my chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. The flush spreading across my skin.
"You're beautiful," he says, voice rough. "Even more beautiful than I imagined you'd look like this."
Imagined.Pasttense. Like he's been thinking about this. Planning it.Fantasizingabout hunting me through the snow and catching me.
"Who are you?" I ask after a few minutes, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
Instead of responding, he reaches for something on the nearby table. The Christmas lights. They pulse in his hands, and my stomach does that confusing flip again—fear and anticipation mixing until I can't tell them apart.
"You’re going to be even more stunning with these wrapped all around you," he murmurs.
He moves toward me with such intent, and I scoot back on the bed instinctively. But there's nowhere to go. The headboard is behind me, and he's between me and the door.
I'm trapped on this bed, wrapped in blankets, my feet bandaged and useless for running.
He's got me exactly where he wants me.
"Stay still," he commands, his knee pressing into the mattress as he climbs onto the bed with me.
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm asking for. For him to stop? To continue? My mind and body are at war.
He doesn't stop. He crawls up the bed until he's over me, his body caging mine, one hand planted on either side of my head. The Christmas lights dangle from one hand, swaying slightly, casting colored shadows across his face.
"I've been patient," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I've let you run and hide. I even let you fight. But now?" His head dips until his lips are a breath away from mine. "Now I'm going to take what's mine."
Mine. The possessiveness in that single word sends a shudder through me.
"I'm not yours," I manage to say, though it comes out weak.
"Such a liar, sugarplum." His nose brushes against mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips. "We both know the truth, even if you’re not ready to say it out loud."
Then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not sweet or tender or asking for permission. It'sclaiming. Demanding. His mouth crashes against mine with bruising intensity, and I taste peppermint and musk.
I should bite him. I could turn my head away, refuse to participate.
Instead, my mouth opens under his, and I kiss him back.
