Page 27 of Ensnared

Theywere prey.

Worse, they were stupid prey.Andthey were going to die.

So, in the end, alone and grief weary,Icrawled back to my cave.Formonths afterward, stinging with loneliness,Icursed myself.MaybeIwas wrong.Maybethey were fine.MaybeIcould have reasoned with them, showed them how to be careful.MaybeIcould still have tracked them down.Iwas sick and ashamed of myself.

ButInever went after them.

Thethought of returning to that quiet, hungry existence hollows my stomach.Ican’t start over, not alone.Notagain.Evenhaving a home for a little while—until they tire of me—has to be better than going back to that, right?Mybody seems such a small price to pay for company.Forsafety.Especiallyifthatis what they plan on doing to it.

Ican always leave if it’s too much.Ifthe loneliness ever seems like the better option, thenI’lltake it.

ButIhave to give this a shot.

Straighteningmy shoulders,Ifinger-comb my hair again as best as possible and go in search of the kitchen.

Threewrong turns later,Ifinally find it.It’son the ground floor—and it’s massive.Spaciousand kitted out with every modern convenience, it’s a chef’s dream.I’vealways been more of a utility cooker, but evenIstart plotting whatImight be able to make on that stove.

Luckyis sizzling baked beans in a pan and the fragrant smell of garlic and onion almost has me swooning.There’sa kettle heating on another burner beside it, and two mugs sit like little temptresses on the counter.Heshoots me a dimpled grin and the sight of it tightens my throat.

Thosedimples could do more damage to me than any one of their fancy rifles.

“ALuckyspecialty,” he declares, andIcould kiss him for not bringing up the porn show from earlier.

Wanderinginto the room,Iadmire the way the floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the apple tree and the dark, towering forest just beyond.Butjust to myself,Iadmit that the better view is behind me.Itake a seat at the breakfast bar in front ofLucky, watching his forearms flex as he stirs the contents in the pan.Witha wink, he goes to the fridge and pulls out a wedge of cheese, and he grates it over the steaming meal.

Sinful, decadent, it melts through the sauce like liquid gold.

Mystomach growls a demand.Loudly.

“Ah, damn,” he curses, giving me a guilty look.Itpulls the firm swells of his lips into an almost-pout thatIhave the insane urge to nibble on. “Shouldhave done this first.”

Hespins to the flick the burner off and pours steaming liquid from the kettle into the mugs.Thescent of coffee floats through the room, andIclose my eyes for a moment against a sinful rush of pleasure almost on par with my earlier orgasm.Coffee.Forreal, actual coffee.Imean, it must be instant, butstill.

Ican’t help the smile that blooms across my face and, asLuckycatches sight of it, the worry that made little lines in his forehead eases.

Afew minutes later, he sets the meal down in front of me.

Coffeeand cheese.MaybeI’mwrong about all of it.MaybeIwasted away from sadness and exposure out in those woods, andI’vesomehow found my way to heaven.

“Don’teat too fast,” he cautions firmly. “Yourbody won’t be used to it.”

Iraise an eyebrow. “Oh, sure,nowthat’s a consideration.”

Lucky’seyes lighten to sunny skies. “Alwaysa consideration.We’revery considerate people.”Thedimple flirts with his cheek again. “’Speciallyme.”

Shakingmy head,Ihuff a laugh.I’venever been a playful person, but it’s impossible not to warm toLucky.He’spure sunshine.

Unableto resist any longer,Idrive my spoon into the fragrant, savory mixture and bring it to my lips, only just remembering to blow on it before shoveling it in.Garlic, melted cheese, and tomato explode on my tongue.Imoan, eyes rolling back slightly.Ithas beenso longsinceItasted anything this good.

Myembarrassment vanishes under my appetite and, despiteLucky’swarnings,Imake quick work of the bowl.Graspingfor the coffee mug,Idrink deeply.Therich, once-familiar flavor makes me grin.

God.Yes.

Drainingthe last delicious drops,Iremember myself and glance up atLucky.He’swatching me intently, an amused smile peeking through his short beard.

“Sorry,”Imutter.

Damnit.WhatamIdoing?Wemight have lived in a dingy, beaten trailer, but my grandmother brought me up with impeccable table manners; she would be appalled.Ican imagine her now—low cash doesn’t mean low class,Eden!

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