Page 8 of Taken in the Tree Farm
Footsteps crunch through snow behind me. Not rushing. Still taking his time. Still letting me run and hide and hope before he closes in again.
I abandon the rope and scan my surroundings. The clearing is surrounded by dense evergreens wrapped in red and white lights. More structures dot the landscape—another gingerbread building, what looks like a candy sculpture workshop, elaborate displays of giant lollipops.
It's all so carefully designed. So intentional.
How long did it take to create this? Weeks? Months? How long has he been planning this night?
I cling to the back of the peppermint pillar, trying to stay in the shadows despite my glowing dress. The rhinestones are a liability, catching every stray beam of light, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I'm stuck being a walking beacon in pink tulle and sparkles unless I want to get entirely naked.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of dark fabric between trees. He's circling me again. Like a wolf.
I make a split-second decision and run for the grove of trees directly ahead, their branches heavy with red and white lights. If I can just lose him in there, maybe double back?—
"You can't outrun me, sugarplum."
His voice comes from behind and to the right. Closer than I thought. Fuck!
I push harder, ignoring my body's screams of protest. The grove swallows me, branches creating a canopy overhead that blocks out the starlight. The lights have cast everything in alternating crimson and pearl, making the shadows dance.
I weave between trunks, trying to vary my path. But my footprints in the snow betray every step. There's no hiding my trail, not barefoot, not in this fresh powder.
My lungs are on fire. My legs are trembling. My body is giving out faster than my will to fight.
Ahead, through the trees, I spot another structure. Smaller than the gingerbread houses, with a striped awning and windows that glow with warm light from inside. A sign above the door reads "Santa’s Workshop" in elaborate frosting-style letters.
It's another prop. Another set piece in this elaborate production.
But it's a shelter. Somewhere to hide, to catch my breath, to figure out what to do next.
But this isn’t a workshop.
It's a bedroom. An elaborate, sexy bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in red silk sheets. A fireplace crackles against one wall, casting dancing shadows. Fur rugs cover the floor. The walls are decorated with more twinkling lights, more candy decorations.
And in the corners, barely visible in the firelight, I see chains attached to the bedframe. Soft chains, probably designed not to hurt, but chains nonetheless.
This isn't my salvation. This is the endgame.
I back toward the door, but before I can run, I hear it close behind me.
The lock clicks.
I spin around and he's there, filling the doorway I just came through. He got here first. But how?
Always waiting. Always one step ahead.
He leans against the door, completely relaxed despite the chase. The Christmas lights coiled in his hands pulse red, then white, then red again. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, like he just took a casual stroll.
Meanwhile, I'm gasping, shaking, barely able to stand.
He takes in my appearance with dark eyes—the ruined dress, the shredded fishnets, my bare and probably bleeding feet, the tears tracking through the snow on my cheeks—and satisfaction curves his lips.
"Welcome to the workshop, sugarplum," he says, his voice low and rough with promise.
I back away, but there's nowhere to go. The bed is behind me, solid wall to my left, fireplace to my right. He's blocking the only door.
I'm trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.
He pushes off the door and stalks forward, unwinding the Christmas lights as he moves. Each step is full of intent, predatory, the lights trailing from his hands like glowing rope.
