Chapter 10
Katie
My mind swirls as I storm up the mountain.
How is it possible for him to be caring one moment, and then horrible again the next?
His demeanor changes so fast, I get whiplash.
While I also don’t want to be stuck with him forever—mates?
No, thank you—I also don’t want to be handed over to the Drakons.
There’s no telling what they would do with me, and besides being tackled that one time, the Minotaur has shown no intention of eating me for dinner.
Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t.
I ponder a plan while we hike in silence, with me leading the way.
It takes every fiber of my being not to look over my shoulder at him.
Not that I need to. I can feel his dominating presence behind me, his shadow smothering my own as the sun begins its decline for the day.
The higher we get, the more my chances of escaping dwindle.
I’m more likely to trip and fall over the edge of the mountain than get away successfully.
In my anger at being tied to him again, I inadvertently cut myself off from an escape path when I stormed ahead, putting the Minotaur at my back, allowing him to quite easily block the route back down.
I curse silently. Perhaps I’m going about this the wrong way.
Do I want a mate? No. Do I even know what that means?
Also, no. But I’m not going back home, and I’m not going to just let myself be handed over to a pair of overgrown lizards.
I’ve gotten myself out of stickier situations, and I can do it again.
I graze my hand over the thin bulge in my pocket where my knife is safely tucked away.
If I can just get him to let his guard down, I might be able to distract him and get away, or even sneak away in the night.
I just need to get free of this rope around my wrist first.
“If I promise to not run away, will you untie me?” I sling over my shoulder.
“No.”
Well, it was worth asking. Initiate plan B—Operation Befriend the Beast—and hope he finds it somewhere in that big chest of his to let me go.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“My name?” His voice is gravelly and rough, the sound of it skitters down my back. If he weren’t my captor and a giant pain in the ass, there’s a very small part of me that wonders what that voice might sound like saying other things.
“I can’t exactly keep calling you Beast, or Minotaur, can I?” I do look over my shoulder at him this time. Technically, I can call him whatever I want, but in the name of our pretend friendship, I should learn his name. Especially if I want my act to be believable.
“Why should we learn each other’s names when I intend to be rid of you?”
Well, fuck. He’s going to be harder to crack than I thought. Stubborn beast. Minotaur. UGH.
“Have it your way then,” I snap. Friendly.
I’m supposed to be friendly. Though he certainly doesn’t make it easy.
I stomp my way up the mountain, as far away from him as the rope will allow before it pulls tight between us.
Initiate plan C—quietly saw at the rope with my knife and hope he doesn’t notice. I will begin tonight when he sleeps.
The sky turns dusky pink and orange as the sun continues its descent.
A chill sweeps up the mountain, swirling around us, my hair catching in my mouth as I puff and pant along the path that seems to wind its way upwards in a never-ending climb.
Shrubbery becomes sparse the higher we travel, our surroundings succumbing to spindly brush and jagged rocks as far as the eye can see.
A shiver takes me, goose pimples spreading across my arms as the temperature dips with the oncoming darkness.
I cross my arms over myself, rubbing at my biceps, my tee doing nothing to buffer the chill, and I dread another night of sleeping on the hard ground.
“We should camp here for the night.” The Minotaur catches up to me easily, another uneasy reminder that I need to plan my escape carefully.
He’s at least a foot or two taller than me, his legs much longer than mine, and he closes the distance I put between us in just a few steps.
I huff, sitting down right where I stand, bringing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them in a bid to trap some warmth between my lack of layers.
The Minotaur crouches beside me, removing his pack and fishing inside it before taking out a couple of sharp-looking rocks.
I scrunch my face up. “Why would you pack rocks? Is there not enough around to your liking?” I tease, as he snaps off a couple of branches and leaf litter from some brush next to us and piles it in a heap at our feet. He snorts, and I think it might have almost been a laugh.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“They are not just any rocks. They are flint rocks.” He starts striking them against one another above the collection of debris.
I watch closely, confused as to what it is he’s trying to achieve when he strikes them again, causing a spark to appear and ignite the pile of branches and leaf litter.
He leans over the lightly smoldering bundle with his hands cupped around the smoke to protect it from the breeze and gently blows on it until a flame catches.
“Oh!” I gasp. A fire, thank goodness. “Can you show me how to do that?” It would be a useful skill to know if I plan to make it out here on my own.
He looks at me, shocked. “You cannot make fire?”
“Uh, no. We have houses and heating, and when we don’t have those, we have lighters and matches to make fires.”
He grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘useless mate’ and something about ‘Fates’ that makes me bristle.
He may think I’m useless, but I haven’t survived on the run and on the streets for the past few months without learning a trick or two.
It may not be quite as simple as using matches or a lighter, but I’m certain I can figure it out.
I snatch the flint from his hands and make my own little pile of leaves and sticks while he gently fans at his, feeding it some bigger branches until it’s glowing a healthy orange.
The fire warms my exposed limbs, and I let out a sigh of contentment as my body unwinds the tension that has settled in my bones after walking all day.
I practice striking the rocks together. They make a clacking sound on impact but don’t create any sparks.
I grit my teeth together and try again, and again, and again.
The Minotaur produces a pot made from hardened clay.
I eye it curiously, pausing my fire-making attempts.
It looks as if it was made by hand; roughly shaped and uneven, but it holds the water he fills it with from the skin just fine.
He adds some strips of dried meat, some greens, wilted from being stuffed in the pack, and a couple of baby potatoes to the mix before placing it on top of his fire.
I turn back to my pile of branches and strike again.
The smell from the simmering stew reaches me, wafting on thin tendrils of steam, making my mouth water.
Groaning, I turn back to the flint. I strike again. And again.
The sun is almost fully set for the evening, the sky now a mixture of purples and deep blues.
The fire casts us both in a warm orange glow that flickers with the dancing flames, little red sparks floating off above us on the breeze to the sounds of crackles and pops.
Beads of sweat form above my top lip and between my breasts, whether it’s from the fire or from how hard I’m concentrating, I don’t know.
I huff, blowing my fringe up and off my forehead where it’s begun to stick.
At least I won’t be cold tonight when it’s time to sleep.
“Argh!” I curse, tossing the flints to the dirt after my millionth attempt to get this damn fire to light, and the Minotaur rolls his eyes at me. He moves to sit behind me, his arms and legs bracketing me on both sides.
“What are you doing?” All the muscles in my body tense as I flinch, wrapped up in his oversized frame.
“It is painful to watch you. I am putting us both out of our misery.”
He picks the flint stones back up and places them in my hands, moving them subtly into the correct position.
Holding my wrists, he moves my arms for me, bringing my hands together for the stones to smack against each other.
His chest presses against my back, adding to the heat from the fire at my side.
Sweat trickles down my spine. His nose hangs over my shoulder, and the sound of him breathing in my ear is slow and steady. The flint doesn’t spark.
I am very aware of how close we are to one another.
How he smells like freshly turned soil after a storm and a wood fire like the one currently burning.
It reminds me of camping as a child, and roasting marshmallows, of telling ghost stories by torchlight in our tents while lightning strikes outside.
Happy memories. Perhaps the happiest memories I have.
I close my eyes, letting myself breathe him in, soaking in his warmth.
I don’t resist as I feel his head dip closer to my shoulder, and he brings my hands together again to strike the stones.
I open my eyes right as a spark springs to life, jumping from the stones to the dried-up leaves and twigs.
I squeal, dropping the flints to clap my hands at my success, the Minotaur having let me go.
“Now, gently blow on the ember to get it to ignite.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and if he wasn’t right beside my head, I might not have even heard him.
I lean forward, cupping my hands around the little glow like I remember seeing him do.
Big tawny hands come up near my face, pulling my hair back over my shoulders and holding it at bay as I blow, gently coaxing the little ember into a small flame.
It catches. The flames start small, eating away at all the dead wood until the fire is alive and wild.
I twist to grin in triumph at the Minotaur, my hair tumbling loose from his grip where he kept it from catching alight.
He stares back at me, flames dancing in his golden eyes, his face contorted as if in pain.
His hand is still midair, so close to my face that if he moved just the slightest, he would be touching my cheek in a caress.
My grin falters, and my mouth dries up, wondering what it is he could be thinking about that has him looking at me like that.
Firelight makes our shadows flicker against the mountain wall.
It turns the thin coating of fur over his skin into a luxurious caramel.
For the first time since being caught, I think to myself that the Minotaur might just be handsome, if he wasn’t such an ass.