Chapter 7
Seven
Kaden
She flinches.
It’s a small, violent jerk of her body, a recoiling so profound it’s like I’ve struck her. My hand, which had been reaching for her, freezes in the air. The space between us crackles with her terror.
I am a man who deals in fear. I cultivate it. I use it as a tool, a weapon, a currency. I have seen it in the eyes of my enemies, in the faces of men who owe me money, in the trembling hands of rivals who have crossed my path. It is a familiar, satisfying sight.
This is not that.
This is the terror of a victim. It’s the instinctive, deeply ingrained fear of a creature that has only ever known pain from an outstretched hand.
It’s a fear that expects a blow, that anticipates cruelty.
And it triggers something deep inside me, a phantom echo of a pain I thought I had buried under two decades of violence and power.
The ghost of a lit cigarette on a boy’s skin.
The memory of a boot pressing down on a small back.
A muscle feathers in my jaw. The rage that flashes through me is no longer directed at her defiance, but at the person who taught her this fear. Evilin. I will add this sin to her tally.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Wynter,” I say again, my voice lower now, rougher.
“Why am I here?” she demands, her voice trembling but laced with a sliver of steel that I find infuriatingly appealing. “Where is ‘here’?”
I give her the truth, parceled out in small, digestible pieces.
My compound. My land. The Deadly Seven. Each word is meant to convey the totality of her new reality, the inescapable nature of her cage.
But instead of dawning acceptance, I see the color drain from her face.
A wave of nausea seems to hit her, and she collapses back against the pillows, her breath catching.
The sight of her distress, her genuine physical sickness from fear, throws me off balance.
I cross the room in two strides, my instinct to control the situation overriding everything else.
I sit on the edge of the bed. She scrambles away from me, and I see her flinch again, her eyes squeezing shut as if bracing for an impact.
That’s when I see it. The faint, yellowing bruise high on her cheekbone, almost hidden by her hair. A mark I missed before. A mark from a hand, not a branch.
The red haze descends. I default to what I know. Dominance. Control.
“Doc said to take these when you wake up,” I say, my voice tight, gesturing to the pills.
“No,” she bites out. “I’m fine.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but then something inside her seems to break.
The fight drains out of her, replaced by a bleak, hollow resignation.
And then, the reality of her situation seems to crash down on her all at once.
Her eyes go wide, unfocused. She’s not just a girl who ran through the woods anymore.
She’s a captive. In my house. In my bed.
The full, crushing weight of what that means hits her, and she shatters.
Her breath begins to hitch. Her chest heaves. It’s not a fight anymore. It’s a panic attack.
I am not prepared for. I can handle defiance, anger, even hatred. This raw, unraveling terror is a language I don’t speak.
“Wynter. Breathe.” The command is sharp, an order. It doesn’t work. She curls into a ball, trying to disappear.
“Look at me,” I say, more forcefully. I reach out, my hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at me. The contact is an electric shock to us both. Her eyes fly open, wide and wild with a fear so pure it’s like looking into the heart of a storm.
“Don’t make me tie you to this bed and force them down your throat,” I warn, the words a low growl. It’s a threat born of my own rising panic, a desperate attempt to regain control.
But my threat is a whisper against the hurricane of her terror. I see the fight is not with me. It’s with the ghosts of every person who has ever hurt her. My grip on her face softens, my thumb instinctively brushing away a tear that spills onto her cheek. The gesture is foreign to my own hands.
“I know you’re scared,” I murmur, my voice dropping, trying to find a tone that soothes instead of commands. “But I promise you, no one will ever hurt you again. Not like she did. You just have to trust me.”
She stares at me, her chest still rising and falling in ragged, shallow gasps. The battle in her eyes is epic. She is drowning, and I, her captor, am offering her a lifeline. The irony is not lost on me.
Slowly, painstakingly, her breathing begins to even out. The wildness in her eyes recedes, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. She is spent.
I release her face and pick up the pills and the glass of water again. I don’t issue a command this time. I simply hold them out.
She watches my hand for a long moment, then her gaze lifts to mine. Her eyes are full of a broken, weary defiance. But she opens her mouth.
I place the pills on her tongue, my fingers brushing her soft, warm lips. I bring the glass to her mouth, holding it steady as she drinks. When she’s done, she sticks her tongue out, a flash of childish rebellion that makes my lips twitch.
I take the glass from her, my knuckles brushing hers. The contact is brief, but it’s enough.
“That’s my good girl,” I say, the words a low growl. It’s praise, but it’s also a brand. A declaration. She has obeyed. This is the first step.
She scoffs, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her eyes flashing with a spark of their earlier fire. “I’m not your girl,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
But I hear it. Oh, I hear it. And the challenge in her words is more exciting than any easy submission could ever be. I will enjoy breaking her of that notion. I will enjoy it very much.