14. Chapter Thirteen #2
The meal slows. My fork scrapes against the plate, the last smear of egg gathered with the back edge and pushed to my tongue.
I sip the coffee, now luke warm, and let my eyes wander.
On the wall, the clock ticks in precise beats, a metronome for the moment.
Across the table, Creed’s eyes are so dark they don’t reflect light.
He leans forward, setting his mug down. His hand is still on my leg.
“You’re different,” he says. “Today.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The difference is obvious.
He smiles, a slow curl of his mouth. “You’re calmer. Or is it something else?”
I watch him. “Maybe I’m just hungry,” I say, but we both know it’s a lie.
He shrugs, satisfied. “There’s more.”
He lets his hand drift higher, fingertips grazing the seam of my thigh, right where it’s softest. If I spread my legs a fraction, he could slip his hand between, but I don’t.
The next sip of coffee leaves a smear of brown on my upper lip. I leave it, just to see if he notices.
He does. “You missed a spot,” he says, and I lick it slow, exaggerating the gesture.
I stare past him, out the window. The world is so bright it hurts to look at.
The change in me is even more distorted in the window. Even my posture is altered: shoulders squared, jaw set. I look feral. I look real.
The sight of it brings a flush to my cheeks. I know what Creed sees when he looks at me now. Not a project, not prey. A partner.
His hand slides up, palm warm against the inside of my thigh. He squeezes, once, and my whole-body contracts around the touch. I want to moan, but I bite it back.
I set my fork down, the sound sharp on the plate. Creed’s hand pauses, waiting for my move.
In the window, I watch myself reach for the mug, bring it to my lips, swallow. I look so composed, but I can feel the tremor in my hands, the raw pulse of need in my chest. I remember the night before, the violence, the blood, the taste of salt on his skin. I want more.
I finish my coffee, set the mug down, and push back from the table. His hand lingers, fingers dragging over the inside of my knee. When I stand, he grips my wrist, holding me there. His touch is gentle, but absolute.
He says, “Are you leaving?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He smiles. “Good.”
He lets go.
I step away from the table, crossing to the window. The glass is cold, wet with condensation. I draw a line through it, watch the outside world smear.
Behind me, I feel him move. His shadow fills the doorway to the kitchen, broad and silent. He waits, letting me have the first move.
I turn, facing him. The air between us is charged, every molecule vibrating with what’s coming.
I say, “I’m still hungry.”
He grins, wolfish. “Come here, then.”
Crossing the room, slow and deliberate. When I reach him, he lifts me up, hands under my thighs, and sets me on the counter. The touch is rough but careful. He spreads my legs with his knees, slots his hips between. His hands cup my face, thumbs rough against my cheekbones.
He kisses me, not soft, not sweet. It’s claiming, a declaration. His tongue is salt and bitter coffee, his teeth nipping at my lower lip until it stings.
I kiss back, hard. My fingers knot in his hair, pulling until he grunts, then slide down to his shoulders, digging in.
His hand drops to my hip, sliding up until it meets bare skin. He finds the edge of my jeans, hooks a finger under, tugs until it comes down, taking my underwear with it. The elastic gives, and his fingers are on me, warm and demanding.
I gasp, arching against him. The counter is cold against my ass, but his hand is hot, insistent. He circles my clit with the pad of his thumb, slow and cruel. He wants to torture me, wants me desperate for it.
God, I am.
I reach down, grab his wrist, press his hand harder against me. He laughs, low in his throat.
“Greedy,” he says.
“Faster,” I whisper.
He does.
He fucks me with his fingers, deep and slow, then faster, every thrust a punch of pleasure. I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white, legs shaking.
He watches my face the whole time. He wants to see what I look like when I break.
I come, hard, a raw sound escaping my throat. I clamp down on his fingers, shaking, and he keeps going, drawing it out until I’m gasping for air.
When it’s over, he withdraws, slow. He licks his fingers, savoring the taste.
“Perfect” He says.
I laugh, breathless. “You’re disgusting.”
He grins. “You love it.”
There’s no denying it.
I slide off the counter, legs wobbly. He catches me, holds me steady. I lean into him, resting my forehead on his shoulder.
For a moment, we just breathe.
The world outside is waking up, the sky going blue, the storm forgotten. Inside, everything is raw and sharp and real.
I glance at the window, catch my reflection.
The woman there is a stranger.
But I think I could get used to her, too.
I smile, small and secret.
And I know what I want next.
I know what I want next, and it’s not breakfast. Pulling my jeans up, I groan as the wet coating my thighs.
He crosses to the sideboard, opens a drawer, rummages for something small.
I hear the shuffle of velvet, the soft chink of metal against wood, and when he turns back he’s got a box in his palm.
Square, black, with the same texture as a luxury watch case.
He sets it in front of me, silent invitation.
I hesitate only because I know he wants me to.
“Go on,” he says, voice soft. “It’s for you.”
I pop the lid. Nestled on gray velvet is a collar. Real leather, black as oil, stitched in crimson thread so fine it looks like veins. The plate at the throat is brushed steel, engraved in tiny, perfect letters: kitten. The clasp is a snap.
My breath catches. I glance up at him. He’s waiting, jaw clenched, arms folded. Not smug, not expectant, just braced.
I hold the collar, thumb brushing the leather, feeling how thick and real it is. I want to laugh at the cliché, but I don’t. Instead, I look at him and say, “You want me to wear it?”
His nod is almost imperceptible. “It’s not about wanting,” he says. “It’s about knowing where you belong.”
I want to challenge that, to toss it back in the box and walk away, but I don’t. Instead, I stand, step around the table, and offer him my neck. I tilt my chin up, exposing the line of my throat, baring myself.
He’s slow, deliberate, threading the leather around my neck. His fingers are hot where they brush my skin, and when he clicks the snap shut, it’s louder than it should be. Final. My heart pounds against the new pressure, a constant pulse of reminder.
He steps back, eyes roaming from the collar to my eyes, reading the truth in both.
“Good girl,” he says.
It shouldn’t mean anything, but I feel the words everywhere, like a switch flipped inside my chest. The collar is tight, but not choking. Just enough to remind me every time I swallow, every time I breathe.
He runs a thumb down the plate, the edge of his nail catching the curve of the K. “You know what this means?” he says.
“That I’m yours,” I say, and it’s true.
He nods, satisfied. “And you’re okay with that?”
I smile, slow and mean. “Only if you can keep up.”
He grins, wolfish, and for a moment I want to see what it would look like if he just tore the collar off with his teeth.
But instead, he kisses me, just the barest brush of lips.
Then he steps away, gathering plates, scraping eggs into the sink.
The sound of running water is soothing, almost hypnotic.
I turn back to the window, press my fingertips to the glass, and watch the world outside thaw into spring.
And then I see it.
The front door is unlocked.
I don’t know if he did it on purpose or if he’s just that arrogant, but the instant the realization lands, something in me wakes up.
The part of me that used to love cross-country, the part that knows how to pace a sprint so you don’t gas out at the finish.
The part that, for a long time, thought she’d never be hunted by anything but her own shadow.
I glance over my shoulder. Creed is elbows deep in dishwater, humming under his breath. The tattoo on his forearm flexes and bunches as he works. He’s not watching me, or maybe he is. Maybe he wants me to do what I’m about to do.
Either way, I’m gone.
I cross the living room in six silent steps, palm the knob, and slip into the morning. The cold is a slap, but it wakes me up, sharp and clear. My feet hit the deck, then the soft give of wet pine needles, and I’m running.
It hurts at first. The ground is uneven, half-mud and half rock, and every root or branch is a trap waiting to snag my bare toes.
But I lean into it, driving with my legs, arms pumping, eyes on the break in the trees where the light is brightest. My lungs burn, but in a way that says you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.
Behind me, the cabin door swings open. I hear him shout, low and furious, but I don’t stop. I want him to follow. I want him to catch me. I want to see what he’ll do when I don’t just roll over and purr for him.
I reach the edge of the property, a wild tangle of brambles and scrub, and duck under a fallen branch.
The woods close around me, thicker and darker, the air cool and electric.
My breath comes in jagged bursts, each one a victory.
I scrape my thigh on a thorn, feel the blood well up, hot and slick, but I don’t slow.
Far enough, I stop. I listen. There’s nothing at first, just the wild hush of the forest, the tick of sweat cooling on my skin.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve ran.
Then I hear it. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, snapping twigs, crushing leaves. He’s coming, and he’s not pretending otherwise.
I smile, feral and free, and reach up to the collar. The snap is simple, just a trick of pressure and angle, and it pops open in my hand. I slip the collar off, turn it over in my fingers, then drop it in the moss. A breadcrumb for the wolf.
“Come and get me,” I whisper, just to the trees, and run again.
There is no plan, no finish line. Only the game, the chase, the pure joy of being wanted enough to be hunted. My body aches, my lungs raw, but I feel more alive than I have in years.
I belong to myself, and to him, and to this.
I belong to the chase.
I run until the world blurs, and I collapse by a boulder, and when the heavy footfalls close in, I don’t fight them.
I let the wolf take me, over and over, until the collar is the only thing left of who I was.
The rest is wild, and perfect, and exactly what I wanted.