Page 64 of Captive Bride

We cross underneath the evergreen canopy in a rush, the crunch of pine needles sharp in the still morning air.

It’s still early. The woods and its inhabitants are only starting to climb slowly from their storm-induced slumber.

“Where are we going?” she asks, looking around curiously.

“Just trust me,” I answer.

Her black slip dress offers little protection from the elements. Every so often, water droplets fall from the surrounding pines and onto her bare skin. Her feet are shod in thin slippers, occasionally sliding on the wet undergrowth.

Still, she doesn’t ask any more questions. She doesn’t demand to know our destination.

She trusts me to lead her as I’ve asked, a fact that sends affection soaring through my chest.

We walk for several more minutes, content in the silence that settles comfortably between us, before we reach the clearing.

This is my own version of an oasis. Tucked deep into the forest, it’s a place where I can come and be alone.

Today I don’t want to be alone, though.

I may never want to be alone again.

Today I want to share this place with her, as I want to share everything.

I hear her laugh beside me as she finally sets eyes on our destination.

“It’s…a shooting range?” she asks.

I turn to her, smiling. “Ever done this before?”

She laughs again, louder this time. “Are you kidding? Of course not.”

I pull her over to the range itself, excitement building in my chest.

“Why not?” I ask, though I know already.

“You saw the way I lived. I wasn’t even trusted to go outside. You think they’d give me a gun?”

I nod, encouraging her to continue.

“I spent my whole life surrounded by armed guards. They got to have the guns, not me.”

“You think they didn’t trust you?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes.

“Of course they didn’t trust me. My father probably thought I’d be just as likely to turn a gun on myself as to use it for protection. I was their prisoner. You don’t give prisoners weapons.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer, knowing the words are small but needing to speak them anyway.

“I hate them,” she says. “I hate every last one of them. Especially my father. How could he do that to me?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because I truly I don’t.

I know that our families are mad for power, but some things seem beneath them.

“I don’t know how your family could do the things they do or mine for that matter. It’s funny how we were brought up differently,” I say. “You’re a captive, and I’m a killing machine.”

We sigh as one, our desperation radiating through the sound.

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