Chapter Two #2
The radio played from somewhere in the kitchen, the announcer’s voice drifting through the cabin: “The National Weather Service is calling this one of the worst blizzards in New York history. Winds are reaching up to seventy miles per hour with snow accumulation expected to reach seven feet in some parts. All roads remain closed, and residents are urged to shelter in place…”
Perfect. Apparently, Mother Nature had her own vendetta against me.
I glanced around the room, scanning for a way out or something I could use as a weapon.
My gaze landed on the mantel above the fireplace, where a row of carved wooden animals sat watching me.
They were small enough to fit in your palm, and beautiful in a way that made you feel unsettled. Not weapon-worthy though.
The smell of food was making my stomach growl like the traitor she was. It had been days of eating gas station and vending machine food, and the prospect of a real breakfast made me forget about the pain for a moment.
But only for a second, because heavy footsteps came down the hall from what I presumed was the kitchen. Valen appeared a second later, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, like some twisted version of domestic bliss. He eyed my stitched-up arm, then the gash across my stomach.
I was suddenly extremely aware that I was sitting there in just my bra and panties, but I made no move to cover myself.
Not because of any ulterior motive—I wasn’t that stupid—but because I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower.
Again. Besides, modesty seemed pointless when he was the one who’d undressed me in the first place.
He kneeled next to me and grabbed my arm. His calloused hands were gentler than expected as he inspected the stitches. There were no words spoken as he ran his fingers down my arm to my fingers, examining each one.
I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but I suddenly lost the ability to form words when he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my stomach. The scent of him, leather and cedar, filled my senses, and I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
This was wrong. So incredibly wrong. This was Valen Creed. I shouldn’t be noticing how he smelt or that he had gentle hands. I held my breath, willing my body to not react at the closeness of him.
Jesus Christ, Seraphine. Get a grip.
“You’re shaking still,” he murmured, and my eyelids flew open.
He was watching me intently with those gray eyes. I swallowed, my throat dry. My gaze traveled down his face to the scar on his cheek.
That sobered me up, and I pulled away from his grip. “I’m fine,” I mumbled. “Do you know where my jacket is? I need to get going.”
He sighed, shaking his head as he stood. “Cute, Seraphine. Your bag’s in the bathroom. So are your pants and an extra shirt. I had to cut yours off last night. Take a shower, then we’ll talk.”
He waited at the end of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, like it was boring him to have to keep an eye on me. I stood, not caring that I was just in my underwear, and folded the blanket, because I still had manners, even if this was a hostage situation.
“And the bathroom is where?” I asked, pretending to be unfazed by his bossy attitude and the fact that he could still murder me.
He nodded toward the hallway. “Second door on the left.”
In the bathroom, I leaned against the door and exhaled sharply.
Fuck my life.
My eyes lit up when I saw my backpack, and I was surprised to find it intact. Valen obviously hadn’t searched it, otherwise he would have found my gun and taken it. The Glock was nestled at the bottom of my bag, ice cold to the touch.
Hello there, beautiful.
I pulled it out, checking the magazine was still loaded. Six bullets. That was enough to either escape or royally piss off a man who’d already spent five years in prison because of me.
I checked my phone, groaning when I realized there was still no signal.
Just perfect. No phone, no GPS, no SOS.
Not that it mattered. What would I even say to the police? Hi, I just crashed my car and the man I thought killed my friends actually saved me, and I’m pretty sure he wants to kill me but he’s making me breakfast first. Can you send someone through the avalanche of snow to get me?
Insanity.
The bathroom door didn’t lock, so I put the gun back in my bag and turned on the shower.
Option A was to get clean, get dressed, hide the gun and find a way to get his keys.
Option B was to shoot him in the leg and ask questions later.
Option C was to just wing it and hope I didn’t shoot myself by mistake.
Knowing my luck, I’d say Option C was the most likely to happen.
The bathroom steamed up from the water, and I scrubbed myself quickly, my mind racing with every possible scenario.
Valen was bigger, stronger, and had more experience with violence thanks to his time in prison.
But I had the element of surprise on my side.
And desperation. Never underestimate a desperate woman with a gun.
I pulled on the clean shirt he’d left, a soft flannel that smelled just like him. I inhaled, kind of enjoying the smell of cedar.
Great. I already had Stockholm syndrome. I needed to get out of here before things got way, way worse.
The gun felt heavier than usual as I slipped it into my waistband. I took a deep breath, trying to summon every ounce of courage I had left. It was time to see if I was as tough as I pretended to be.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon, mixed with the scent of firewood. It was warm and inviting, like the kind of scene you would see in one of those magazines about mountain retreats and serenity, not the horrific Lifetime movie my life was turning into.
Valen stood with his back to me, transferring eggs to a set of plates. The coffee machine beeped, and my stomach growled at the sight of actual food.
Wait, the coffee machine had beeped? “Is the power back on?” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Generator,” he said without turning around. “Sit.” He nodded at the small wooden table by the window.
There was an air of authority in his voice that had me moving to sit down, then kicking myself for listening to him. The gun pressed into my lower back, reminding me that I wasn’t helpless.
The snow was still coming down, not showing any sign of stopping. Mother Nature wasn’t done giving me the middle finger. My heart sank when I saw what was easily three feet of snow. At this rate, I’d need a snowplow, a team of sled dogs and a small army just to dig Bessie out.
He set a plate of food in front of me—perfectly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and toast. “Eat,” he commanded, sitting in the chair across from me.
His gray eyes bore into mine like he was looking directly into my soul. Either that, or he knew I had the gun tucked into my waistband.
Just act normal, Seraphine. Eat the eggs, talk about anything other than you ruining his life. Don’t let him know you’re armed.
I took a bite of the eggs, groaning around my fork at the burst of flavor. At this point, I didn’t even care if he had poisoned me. At least I would die with a full belly.
“Coffee?” He poured me a cup before I could even respond.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
The silence between us was suffocating as we ate. He never took his eyes off me, making me extremely aware of every move I made. I was eating like it was my first meal in a week, and I set my fork down, focusing on my coffee instead.
“So.” He sounded deceptively casual, but I could sense the heat underneath. “Want to explain what you’re doing here?”
Fuck.
I took a sip of my coffee, not minding the liquid burning my tongue. What was I supposed to say? Oh, just here to bait a serial killer—you know, the one you took the fall for—so I can kill him and probably end up dead in the process.
No, that wouldn’t do.
“The real question, Valen, is what are you doing here?” I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table as I cradled my mug.
Uno Reverse.
“Try again.” He didn’t even flinch at my attempt to manipulate the conversation.
Dammit.
“I told you; I was just driving…”
“Lie to me one more time, and you won’t like the consequences.” He leaned forward, matching my posture.
My eyes widened, and I gripped my mug tighter.
“For the past five years, you’ve been a ghost. Two weeks ago, you suddenly made yourself visible. Now, you’re on my mountain. Tell me what you’re doing here.” His eyes narrowed as my hands trembled, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking eye contact first.
He wasn’t wrong. I’d disappeared the day they convicted him. Not all at once, just piece by piece until I was no more. After the trial, the school had offered for me to finish my degree online to help me “heal.” What they’d really meant was “please go away so we can forget this ever happened.”
So I did.
I finished my degree, stopped answering calls, changed my name on every social media account and stayed hidden and moving.
Only my parents and Emmeline knew where I was or where I’d been.
Well, them and my clients. I’d become a grief artist. No more landscape designs for me.
I created artwork for people who’d lost everything that mattered, because I understood the clientele and was able to turn the deepest kind of pain into something beautiful.
But I didn’t tell him any of that.
I didn’t mention that my sudden social media presence two weeks ago had been bait for a serial killer. I didn’t explain that the new murders happening since his release weren’t a coincidence. And I sure as hell didn’t announce the fact that I’d spent the last two months taking shooting lessons.
Instead, I let my hands drift from the table and slowly reach behind my back. His gaze followed every movement. And when I pulled the gun out and pointed it at him, he didn’t even cower.
He laughed.
Dark.
Dangerous.
With a gleam in his eye that told me I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.