Page 33 of Ravaged
CHAPTER 10
Ethan
I yanked Teagen up by her hair, bringing her to her feet. I glanced over her body to make sure she wasn’t wounded. Scraped up. Streaked in dirt. Bathrobe barely hanging on. But not bleeding. I pulled her through the woods to a log I had seen earlier, a fallen tree lying on its side. A few ants trailed the bark, exploring the territory. I moved her against it, manipulating her until she was stretched out like I wanted.
I sat on her chest, tying her wrists together, pulling them above her head. Her chest heaved, unable to take a full breath with my weight on top of her. My cock was inches away from that sweet little mouth. Reading my mind, she licked her lips. I swear she did it on purpose to mess with me. Ignoring her mouth as best as I could, I flipped around, tying her ankles and spreading them wide, hooking them to the bottom side of the log.
I stood on an empty space of the trunk, peering down at her. The bathrobe fell to the sides, revealing her plump thighs, the tuft of hair on her pussy. She was laid out on display for me. Her once curly hair was sprawled in limp, tangled waves on the sides of her face, the oil in her hair shining from the lack of bathing. Sponge baths only did so much.
Her stomach growled, and she grimaced. The one time she forgot to eat her lunch, is the same day she decided to run. The human body could survive for a month or more without food.
But that didn’t mean she had to.
I scowled. What was wrong with me? She was a prisoner. A piece of cargo. A bargaining chip. Seeing a prisoner as a person with needs made the abductor weak. Made him defenseless against her charms.
Because a woman like Teagen was too damn pretty. Oily hair. Her natural body odor fragrant. Spread out and torn up, each strike of a twig leaving a faint red and white line on her skin, milky against the dark wood. The way her fingers plucked the strings, moving in elegant and jagged motions, making every melody in the room, in her soul, in my mind come to life. Those innocent eyes matched with that scheming mouth.
Those big green eyes looked up at me, full of vulnerability. Inch by inch, I wanted to tear her apart. To show her that she was still a prisoner. That she was nothing to me. But what was it about the woods that made me tie her to a damn tree, when I should have taken her back to the house?
What was it abouther?
“What are you going to do to me?” she whispered, a hint of sultry attitude in her words.
I jumped down and kneeled beside the log, put a hand on her soft stomach. Stroking down, coming to her upper thigh. Warm skin. She writhed, wiggling into my touch, and I moved my hand away.
Teagen thought we were having fun.
She sucked in a breath. “Please don’t stop,” she whispered.
That was Teagen’s weakness. She needed to be needed, to feel like she had a purpose. That someone depended on her. ThatIwanted her. The club members at the Dahlia District fostered that need, made it grow until it was wound tightly within her insecurities.
But someone like me? I didn’t give in easily.
And yet I wanted to, with everything I had. I wanted to make her mine. But not if it had to do with fulfilling a vacant urge that meant nothing in the long run. An urge that had nothing to do with me.
I only wanted to ruin her if she wanted me back.
“What would you do if I left you here?” I muttered. “If I showed you that your life didn’t mean anything? Not to them, nor to me.”
She stayed still for a second, then her eyes welled with tears, realizing that I was serious.
“I can be good,” she said in a feeble voice. “I promise.”
So weak. So desperate. I wanted to give her what she wanted, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
“You said that last time,” I said.
I started to walk away.
“Please, Ethan,” she begged. “Please don’t leave me here. Don’t let me die.”
“I never said paying for your choices would be fun.”
We were only a few hundred feet into the woods, but the trees were so dense that it was hard to see the house. Teagen’s sobs were muffled by the trees. She had no idea that I would be back soon. I simply wanted to get something from the house first.
In the kitchen, Clara was fanning herself with her hand, her skin blotchy, still a wreck from Oliver’s spectacle. Blood had squirted onto her dress. I didn’t blame her for still being upset.
“Did you find her?” she asked. I nodded. “She’s okay?”
