Page 32 of Betrayed
And I don’t know if we’ll make it out.
I slip out of the bed slowly, carefully. His arm tightens instinctively. His two-word command comes out as a growl. “No. Stay.”
I press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Just getting a cuppa, love,” and he relaxes.
I smile to myself as I crawl out of bed. I’ve never used that term of endearment from home before, not on any man.
Being here, with him, brought it to my tongue.
I loved saying it. “Love,” I whisper to myself, padding across the floor through the warm living room—the fire still burns—of course, he got up in the middle of the night to rebuild it.
So, I’d feel as warm as I am now, wearing nothing but his rumpled flannel shirt, buttoned like a nightgown. The soft cotton hem brushes my bare skin at my mid-thigh, reminding me how much taller and bigger he is than I am.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I wrap my arms around myself in a hug, knowing I’m safer with him here.
Just getting a cuppa, love.
I’m slipping into my past, my old words, my old self.
The closer I get to Caleb, the more I remember.
The more I realize why it was so easy for me to march into a stranger’s home, fully ready to take his money, forsake him, and put his life in danger.
I pictured the stranger who bought my virginity as Caleb.
It made it so easy.
So simple.
But he wasn’t Caleb, was he? Quite the opposite, actually. I indeed avoided him after he gave me the fob because I was frozen with fear, living on borrowed time from the Morettis.
I’m what we call here in our village a ‘never-do-nancy.’ Someone who says they’re going to do something to better their lives but never does.
Saying things like:
I’m going to break up with that horrible man.
I’m going to apply to college.
I’m going to come clean.
I should have told him everything and begged for his help. I had so many opportunities. I kept telling myself I would, a perfect never-do-nancy.
Instead, I hopped on a plane with a half-cocked plan and a prayer.
I pad to the table with my tea, still barefoot, the stone floor cold beneath my feet. The notebook is where I left it last night—on the counter, beside my burner phone and the list of old contacts.
I flip it open and stare at the map I’ve marked in red ink, a fresh X marking the spot where gorgeous, vulnerable Gretchen was last seen.
I hope he doesn’t laugh when I show him what I’m working with.
I pull Lucian’s coat off the chair and wrap it around my shoulders. His scent is still on it: warmth, cedar, and perseverance. I feel safer with it on.
From the comfort of his coat, I wrap my hands around my steaming mug, inhaling the scent of black tea and sugar while staring at my notebook, a stubborn part of me still wondering if I can do this alone.
Keep him safe here at the cabin.
Could a sheep tranquilizer keep him subdued?
