Page 11 of Ensnared

Domleans in close enough thatIcan smell his warm, earthy scent.Hisvoice is full of delicious threat. “Youthink you’re ready to keep upwithme?”

Animage pops into my mind, ofDomshoving between my thighs, that same dangerous look in his eyes.Ofhim punishing my mouth with his tongue and teeth.Ofour bodies slick with sweat, fighting, aching, untilIwhimper and writhe beneath him.

Heatpools low in my stomach with a vicious suddennessI’venever felt before.

Dompulls back, a frown flickering across his face as he studies me.

Iavert my eyes and take a shuddering breath.He’sright.There’sno wayIcan do that.I’veonly ever slept with one man—my husband,Henry—and he was always less than impressed with his frigid wife.Quitesimply,Idon’t enjoy sex.Toeven think of sleeping with five different men is... well, it’s...

Myheart is racing again.

“Ithas to be your choice, darlin’,”Beaudrawls. “Wewon’t take anyone who isn’t willing.”

Istare at him.Forsome odd reason, my feet won’t move.

Thesilence stretches a little too long, thenDomshrugs. “Allsettled then.We’llwalk you back to the river and see you off.”

Hisrelief is insulting, but he also reminds me of my burning thirst.Inod once, mind racing, and hearBeaulet out a hard, disappointed breath.Cheekshot,Idon’t look at him.

It’sjust because they haven’t had a woman in months,Iremind myself as we make our slow way around the clearing and back into the woods toward the river.Nearlythree years, they said.It’sa supply and demand issue, that’s all.It’srude, really.Myonly value isn’t in my body.Ikept myself alive all this time, didn’tI?Somany others haven’t.

Again,Iavoid looking at the putrid corpses.Theywon’t take long to sour in this heat and birds are already starting to flock to the fresh meat.Ituck the remaining cheese into my pocket for now.Idon’t think they’d ask for it back, butI’mnot taking any chances.

Beauis close behind me, raising the hairs on my skin like static electricity.Luckywalks to my left, shooting me glances clearly designed to catch my eye.Istudy our feet instead.Hehas a musical walk, as though he’s just a step away from dancing.

Myfoot throbs against each brush of grass, andIwonder ifI’min any position to ask for that strip of iodine-soaked clothBeauhad earlier.Sweatdampens my back and arms, stinging my bullet wound.ShouldIbe worried by how littleIcan feel in that arm now?Beausaid he was a doctor, didn’t he?Ican’t possibly ask for more help, though.Notnow.

Ithink of the remaining hunters, out in the woods somewhere.Arethey still around?Havethey scattered?I’min no state to keep running, and my little knife seems more pathetic than ever.

Bythe time we reach the clearing,I’mtrembling from head to toe.Thedays of fear and running and scrounging crash in on me, andIhave to lean onLucky’smuscled arm for support.Hehelps me to the riverbank, andIsit with a grateful sigh, moving my toes through the cool, silky liquid.

Edgingforward,Iwash the dirt from my hands, then cup them to catch some water.Ittrickles from the creases in my palms too quickly, butIlick every dropIcan.IfIdidn’t have company,I’dbe tempted to stick my head in.

Ahand touches my shoulder.Luckyoffers me an empty tin bottle with a small, sad smile.Helooks like aVikingwith that long, tied-back blond hair, albeit a very clean one.Itake the bottle with a grateful nod and fill it to the brim.

WhenIfinish drinking,Beausits beside me and opens his bag.

“Youdon’t have to—”Iprotest, butI’mcut off as he grasps my elbow, gently pulling the injured arm closer.

“Ididn’t finish,” he says gruffly, “and this arm needs to be looked at.”

Iclose my mouth as he tends to me and decide to let him work.Truthfully,I’mglad for the help.

Imade a few sneaky trips to the library in the last few years—for some reason, no one ever thinks to raid a library—andIpicked up some books on herbology to try to cover the medicinal basicsIneed.Iknow better than to attempt to find drugs these days; the places they might have been found are either long since hollowed out, or they’re war zones.Thebooks were sufficient, andIlearned enough to get by, but nothing replaced modern medicine.

Or, at least, what used to be known as modern medicine.

Igrit my teeth as he cleans and disinfects the wound.

“Thisneeds stitches.”Hesighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Idon’t have anything to numb the pain.”

Igrimace. “Justdo it.I’drather have them.”

Beau’seyes flick to mine, gauging my reaction.Thenhe pulls out what looks like a small sewing kit, though the needle is wickedly curved and unlike anyIuse on my clothes.Hetugs me closer, and his other arm holds me steady.Smallflecks of golden brown warm his green eyes.Hishair is tousled and small beads of sweat cling to his hairline from the soupy heat of the day.

Thefirst suture drives all thoughts of his face from my head, andIcry out in pain despite myself.Hislips compress and eyebrows lower, but he keeps going.

“Beau, you can’t torture her for not coming with us,”Luckycalls. “Youknow that, right?”

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