12. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Kairo
She’s conflicted. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t know whether to be terrified of me, or aroused. But it doesn’t matter. I gave her the ‘choice’ to say no. She gave herself to me. Willingly. And now… we're here. She has nowhere else to go, no one else to hear her lovely screams.
Harbor nods when I tell her the room is hers, but I see the slight tremor in her lip, the rapid beat of a pulse just beneath translucent skin. Her hands grip the strap of her bag, knuckles white with unsaid things. It's not too late to take her now, press her against the rough cabin walls and make her mine. Instead, I wait. I tell her how comfortable the bed is, the view we have of the stars if we sit outside. My words slide over her as she keeps gnawing on that lip.
I hear her breathe again. A small sigh, a rabbit's whimper. It's delicious. Her panic and excitement are the same, and I can taste them both. She listens to my explanations with careful nods. There are moments when she seems to relax, a little less tense, but the fear creeps back in. Her every movement betrays her. I smile as I mention the nearby waterfall. I can see the moment she imagines herself safe and alone. Her face tilts, and her eyes widen with suspicion, knowing that nothing will be as she imagines.
I assure her the cabin is completely off the grid. Just the solitude she wanted. She's the mouse who ran into the trap, mistaking it for a home. She blinks at me, and I almost let a laugh slip, the kind of laugh that would send her running if there were anywhere to go. It’s fine. There will be time for the fun later. I take a step back and mention needing to visit the main lodge for supplies. She settles slightly at the idea of being left alone, her grip on the bag loosening just enough for me to know she believes she’s safe.
Harbor's voice is so soft when she finally speaks. It comes out a hesitant whisper, like she might regret it as soon as it's airborne. “Thank you, Kairo.” The way she says my name, like a plea and an accusation wrapped in a single syllable, makes me want to hear her scream it. Choke on it as I shove my cock down her throat. This endless edging is enough to drive me to madness, but still, I play the game. Harbor is like a fine wine. Not to be rushed or glossed over.
No, she needs a steady hand, a confident man, someone who will guide her through those sick fantasies she keeps locked in her hand and inside her fiction. She thinks I'm the answer to her ending, a strange and temporary savior. She thinks she can use me and discard me, but there is no end. Not to this. Not to us.
“It's a pleasure,” I say, watching her eyes as they dart away, finding more solace in the walls of the cabin than in my presence. She’s skittish, and it thrills me. It won't be long before she's cornered, with nothing but her desperate words between us.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks, almost timid, a hint of color rising to her cheeks. “I… I can sleep on the couch.”
“Nonsense. My mother would kill me if I made you do that.” I let my gaze linger just a second longer than necessary, watching her flush spread like an infection. It’s a lie. My mother is a venomous snake. She doesn’t give a fuck about me anymore than I give a fuck about her. “The more comfortable you are, the more you’ll write.”
She looks into my eyes and for a moment, I’m transfixed. I want to swim in her emerald depths, feel the way the gold slams against my skin, the cold edge to the warmth inside.
I smile and the expression feels wolfish. “Just settle in. You’ll get your groove back.”
She'll pour her little heart into the keyboard, convinced this is her salvation. Convinced that isolation will bring the words, that they’ll come so fast she won't even see me coming.
I suggest she start writing as soon as she can. She's got the look of a woman who needs distraction from the thoughts clawing inside her skull. I mention that writing is all about confronting fear. Her unease will feed her. It will be her muse. “Besides, I have a feeling you're drawn to darker things.”
She says nothing, but the redness on her cheeks gives her away. She looks down, unable to meet my gaze. She's unsure, fragile. A porcelain doll with a crack, and I'm the one holding her together.
“You'll surprise yourself,” I tell her, brushing against her as I turn to leave. I can almost feel her tremble as I touch her, just enough to know she wants this, wants me.
“I hope so,” she says, more to herself than to me.
Outside the cabin, I breathe in the sharp, cold air. I'm a patient man, but the way she trembled makes me want to take her, to see the look on her face when she realizes there is no one else for miles, no other cabin, no other soul. I imagine the moment when she stops pretending she doesn't want this, when she gives in to the only reality she has left: me.
She will never leave this place. Not without me on her arm, under her skin, crawling around, whispering to her that her desires can only be satiated by me. That I’m the only one who can possibly understand what it’s like to live with the lust of a monster.
I head towards the main lodge, thinking of Harbor alone in that cabin, how she must look sitting at her keyboard, thinking the first words of her ending will be hers.
Noah was there. Of course he had shit to say about my endeavor with Harbor, but all I had to do was look at Cassidy and smile and he shut his fucking trap. Of course, I’d never do anything to his girl, but he doesn’t need to know that. I don’t kill women. I may or may not have killed a few nosy boyfriends who got pissed their chicks bounced on my dick instead of theirs.
But that’s all in the past.
The hike home was long and boring, but I got us what we needed and now… I’m standing behind a tree, watching her.
She's already pulled out her laptop, fingers frantically typing, exorcising her demons before they take hold. Harbor’s afraid of her own mind. It makes her easy prey. I'd already had Knox set up the Wi-Fi blocker on one of his trips here to build our cabin. Soon she will feel nothing, smell nothing, want nothing but me. I chuckle as I head towards my car, methodically removing the battery and putting it in the small shed the boys and I use to get into the basement. It runs along this short path and under the house. She'll try to escape soon. I’m counting on it.
There’s anticipation crawling under my skin. My mask is just inches from my fingertips and I long to pull it on and get the party started. I imagine her eyes widening, the frantic shuffle of her feet as she finds each door locked. I imagine the moment she gives in, and the thought of it is better than I can stand. She’s going to write her romance story, and she doesn’t even know she’s living it.
As I store the battery, I feel my patience slip. I tell myself not to rush. I need to watch her, to let her fear brew, to see the confusion and despair settle into her features. I am the audience and the actor, and this is a play with one beautiful ending.
A shrink might call this psychotic. Or narcissistic. The play on forced love, confusion and a dash of PTSD.
I just call it a need. I need her and she needs me. There’s a pull happening between us that sounds insane to a sane person, but it’s there nonetheless. Walking out of the shed, I make a split-second decision and grab my mask. Pulling it on, I stand in the clearing, staring up at the big window where she’s in full view, her body hunched over her laptop.
Harbor’s jumpy, already paranoid. The wind is hitting the cabin, and I can imagine that every creak is setting her off. Especially since she’s already experienced some light stalking back at her place. It’s in every nervous blink, every shaky inhale. She thinks she’s in control, but the feeling will dissipate the same way it came. Quickly. I imagine how it will feel to have her under me, each cry and whimper my doing.
I let myself sink into the sensation, the reality of knowing she's trapped. Knowing I'm in control, and it's all falling into place.
Finally, she snaps out of her trance. She checks her phone, knowing she'll find nothing. She rattles the locked front door. Her fear seeps through the cabin's rough walls, oozes into the air, stains the very wood. She's not writing now; she's waiting for me, my little prey. She’s out of her mind with panic by the time I return, and the thought sends adrenaline pulsing through me.
She can't escape me. Can't escape herself. The cabin is a perfect trap, an exquisite prison. She's scurrying from room to room, a little mouse with nowhere to hide. The light fades around her, and she looks fragile in the growing dark. Vulnerable. Alone. I savor the way she panics, her breaths coming quick and shallow, her eyes flicking back to the door again and again, waiting for me.
But I stand here, in the clearing, staring. It takes a few minutes, but she finally comes to stand at the window and peers down. Her chest heaves when she catches sight of me. Standing. Quiet. My black and gold demon mask barely visible in the rapidly darkening sky. My favorite one. One I had especially made for the four of us, all in different colors. They were half masks, the top half of them covered, the bottom exposed. Makes more sense not to have to take it off since I planned on using it to devour my beautiful girl.
Yet, within her fear, within those gasps of horror, her thighs clench. It’s almost imperceptible, but for the fact that I’ve tracked her for months.
I know everything about her.
This turns her on.
Which makes her even harder to resist.
My grin stretches beneath my mask as I step into the darkness. She loses track of me as night falls, and finally she goes to sit back on the couch, trying not to lose her mind.
When I finally push the door open, she jumps as if she's been stung, eyes wide, lips parted in a gasp she tries to hide.
"You're back." Her voice is thin, a thread stretched taut, ready to snap.
"I'm back." I let the door close behind me, my arms full, my intentions clear.
Harbor bites her lip, and the small, nervous gesture sends a rush of heat through my body. She can't meet my eyes. "I couldn't get a signal."
"The cabin's remote." I drop the bags on the counter, my movements slow, deliberate, letting her absorb each second. "You said you wanted solitude."
"Yeah, I did." She forces a laugh, brittle and sharp as broken glass. "I guess I didn't expect it to be so... complete."
She doesn’t mention the mask. Neither do I. She’s unsure how to approach it. Worried that if I deny that it was me, it meant another demon was watching her.
And that might shatter her psyche into a million pieces.
I look at her, making sure she sees my certainty, my promise. "You're safe here, Harbor. I promise."
She nods but doesn’t believe me.
"You look cold." I motion to the fireplace. "I'll get a fire started."
Harbor shivers. "Thanks." It's more breath than voice, more instinct than will. She forces a smile and it hangs crooked on her face. "I just need to get used to the quiet.
The quiet will eat her alive.
I crouch by the fireplace, stacking wood, my back to her. I can feel the tension rolling off her in waves, and it's intoxicating. The lighter flares, a small explosion of light, and as I turn, the shadows flicker across her face. She watches me, a hunted animal, ready to bolt.
The fire crackles, filling the cabin with a warm glow. The soft light throws her features into sharp relief, and I can't tear my eyes away. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You’ll be fine," I say, low and soothing, letting her hear what she needs to.
She backs away, careful, her movements slow, her wariness a kind of music.
I pour her a drink, knowing she won’t refuse. I pour my intentions into the glass, watch her lift it to her lips with hesitant fingers. My pulse quickens as she swallows. I imagine her taking more, taking everything I have to give. The thought rips into me, ignites my blood. The cabin is dark around us, a womb, a tomb. She’s where she belongs, and it’s time to break her open, watch her bleed need and desperation. I sip my own drink and chuckle. The wait is over.
She sits with the drink cupped between both hands, like it might slip away if she lets go, like everything else she thinks she knows. "Thanks," she mutters, eyes glued to the amber liquid, refusing to look up. I want to rip it out of her hands, replace it with myself, make her grip me just as tight. I wait, watching, letting her squirm under my silence.
"You need it," I say, each word soft but sure. "Just drink, Harbor. Relax."
She glances up, the liquor heating her cheeks. She needs it, and she needs me, and she’ll have both before this night is done.
"I’m trying," she says, more to herself than to me, but the slight wavering in her voice is all I need. It gives me a new kind of high.
I drink, letting the heat roll through me, pooling, consuming. "Let the creative juices flow. Just give in." But I don’t know what I’m asking her to give into anymore.
Me?
The man in her novel?
The thoughts dancing around in her head? The same ones I can see her fighting right now as she eyes me, her gaze roaming the hard planes of my body.
She sips, tentative and slow, but I can tell it's already working its way through her system, loosening her tight defenses.
"You feel it, don’t you?"
She looks at me, eyes wide, vulnerable. Like she knows exactly what I mean and exactly what she's done. "I'm... I'm not sure I know what you’re talking about."
I stand, feeling the anticipation clawing at my insides, demanding release. She’s so fucking fragile, and I’m so fucking ready.
"Yes. You do."
Her hand shakes, and the drink sloshes over the rim. She looks down, and I feel something primal and dark shift inside me. This is it.
I've waited long enough.