Epilogue
Margot
After checking all the windows and doors, I crawl into a bed that doesn’t belong to me.
Stretching my arms and legs wide, I take advantage of the space.
While sleeping with Caine is lovely, the man still twitches and migrates around the bed.
It’s as if his body cannot tolerate stillness, and the nonsense must come out somehow.
We’re staying at an Airbnb in the woods to celebrate the anniversary of the first time Caine chased me through the haunt.
Tonight, we’re trying a brand-new fantasy from my list.
My body tingles at what’s potentially to come.
I need to fall asleep for this, but anticipation has me wide awake.
Flipping on the bedside light, I take my paperback from the nightstand.
It’s horror, of course, about a woman who saw a monster in the woods but isn’t sure if it was a figment of her imagination or not.
For the first few chapters, I believed the monster was all in her head.
Now that she’s returned to the woods, I’m not sure.
I’m so absorbed in the book that I startle when my phone chimes, almost losing my place.
Caine: Go to bed.
Stretching my arm in front of the bedside light’s glow, I flip him off, wondering if he’ll be able to tell what I’m doing from my shadow.
Caine: Brat.
I send back a and four words: You won’t get in.
Caine: We’ll see. This will be better if you’re asleep, though.
Me: I tried. I’m too excited.
Caine: God, I love you. Try again. For me.
Me: Fine. I love you too.
Setting the book back on the nightstand, I burrow beneath the plaid quilt.
Eyes shut, I try to think tired thoughts.
All I see is Caine’s face in my mind, the way he looked at me from across the table after we finished dinner.
The pitch of his voice when he said, “You know I love you, and you are always, always safe with me, don’t you? ”
I’d nodded and said of course I knew.
His smile had promised filthy things were to come. “Hold on to that, because when we start playing, your instincts will be trying to tell you otherwise.”
I’d thought the heady rush of trepidation and arousal couldn’t grow stronger than it had been at the table. I was wrong. The possibility of what’s to come works my mind into a frenzy. I don’t know how long I lie awake, but eventually I drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.
· · ·
Rough hands close around my ankles, ripping me into awareness.
A scream tries to claw its way out of my throat.
My lungs are seizing, terror overwhelming me.
Choking and sputtering, I kick frantically.
It’s futile. Blanket bound, I hit the floor thrashing, limbs beating fabric that feels never-ending.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, shit.
Oh my god.
There’s a rough chuckle, a deep male voice. Even muffled by blankets, there’s no missing the hunger in it. “See what happens when you forget to look under the bed?” Menacing. Arousing. Threatening. Delicious.
It’s a toss-up as to which part of me might burst first—my heart or my pussy.
Still bundled in the blankets, I’m lifted.
A soft grunt reaches my ears. I stop squirming temporarily.
I’m committed to this fantasy, but not to the point of injury.
If I pass out, I want it to be from orgasms, not because I thrashed so hard my abductor dropped me on my head.
My heart races. Floorboards creak beneath us. The cabin door opens and closes.
Serious as a funeral, Caine says, “Real: If I let you ride in the bed, you cannot jump out and run away, understood? Once I get you to where we’re going, you can fight like hell if you want, but no leaving the truck. Otherwise, I will buckle your ass in the cab.”
“Fine. I’ll stay in.” After a beat, I add, “Real.”
“Atta girl.”
I’m moving, then landing, the grooves of the bed liner pressing through the blankets. Still fully burritoed, I go sliding across the truck bed as the tailgate slams shut.
Whatever reality crept in with Caine’s warning vanishes as the truck bounces down an old fire road.
I let my mind go. Stop trying to think or plan.
There’s only sensation. The contrast of the uncomfortable bed with the warmth of the fabric.
The anticipation in my stomach. I left the execution of this idea fully to Caine, and the past year has shown me that he’s as creative sexually as he is in the haunt.
Hallelujah.
The truck rumbles to a stop. His door opens and closes.
The tailgate drops. I’m yanked unceremoniously to the edge of the gate, unrolled like an old rug.
A glimpse of bright stars watching us is all I see before I’m flipped onto my stomach.
I struggle, but Caine binds my hands behind my back easily.
Pulling me until my tiptoes are brushing the ground, my torso still supported by the tailgate, he tugs up my worn sleep shirt.
The light gray lace thong I’m wearing feels like nothing.
Caine shoves his thigh between my mostly dangling legs.
Caressing me over the lace, he presses the fabric against my slickness.
His fingers feel fantastic, but I try to kick him on principle.
Ignoring my attempt at violence, he lets out an approving hum.
“Look at you. Drenched already.” Sidling in tight behind me, he grinds on my ass while tying a blindfold around my head.
Despite myself, I’m pressing back, the feel of his erection a tease.
For a moment, he lets me. Pleasure is cut short by a sharp spank.
I jump, swearing at him under my breath.
I’m manhandled across the grass. It’s damp from the night air, soaking my socks.
Barf.
Don’t think about it.
I’m so busy not thinking about my socks, I don’t realize I’m being freed and then bound again until softness encloses one wrist. The delicate sound of a metal buckle securing the cuff flips a switch.
My body’s response to the restraint is Pavlovian, my brain switching from fight to fuck.
Over the past year, I’ve learned Caine has quite a fondness for bondage.
He even made me custom restraints. I wiggle my wrist curiously.
The rope doesn’t give. Caine moves me sideways.
Cuffing my other wrist, he lifts my arm until both are fully extended, my body making a T.
Hands run down my torso, caressing my waist. I fight the part of me that’s ready to purr and lean into Caine’s touch, trying to find the fear from earlier.
He’s a stranger.
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
Do know I’m going to like it, though.
Gently knocking my legs apart, he cuffs and secures my ankles. I can’t move. I can’t see. All I can do is wait for whatever happens next. Mercifully, Caine doesn’t keep me waiting long. Cool metal teases my collarbone, making me gasp.
A knife. He has the knife.
“No moving, killer.” With a soft tug, the blade slices through my T-shirt.
Oh my god.
My nipples pebble in the night air. Caine’s sharp intake of breath cuts the quiet.
More delicately than should be possible, the knife’s point outlines my breasts.
Designing patterns, he works his way down my abdomen.
When he reaches my left hipbone, flesh replaces metal.
He brushes his thumb across the artwork he designed and tattooed.
It’s his name, the delicate script accented by a rose that matches one of the tattoos on his forearm.
“You were made to be fucked in the moonlight.” His words are thick, as heavy as the blade’s touch is light.
His knuckles brush one side of my hip, and then the other as he cuts off my panties.
Blindfolded, bound, and being cut out of my clothing, I feel somehow untethered.
Light in a way that’s entirely at odds with my restraints.
Fingers slip between my legs. The lewd sound of my own arousal makes me wetter.
Two fingers, and then three, thrust inside me.
Caine scissors them gently. Teasing my clit with his thumb, he takes me to the point of weak knees, only to stop before I come.
Arms and legs restrained, all I can do is rock my hips, chasing friction.
Again, he coaxes me higher, higher, higher, and again, he robs me of release.
Coming is the only thing I can think about; the world reduced to need.
I could be anywhere: the woods, the rental cabin, or our apartment outside Newbound.
I’m cresting orgasm, blissfully ready to tumble into ecstasy.
Sensation vanishes. Night air chills me, the loss of Caine’s hand making me feel more exposed than when he cut off my clothing.
“What the fuck. There’s edging, and then there’s torture.” Shifting my hips impatiently, I wait for him to resume. When he doesn’t, I groan. “Am I supposed to beg? Is that what this is?”
All I hear is wind winding around the trees, and the gentle caress of branches brushing each other.
“Caine.”
Nothing.
“Caine.”
The sound of my voice breaking the near-stillness scatters goose bumps across my skin.
Calling out again feels reckless. Tilting my head, I try to peek around the edges of the blindfold, but he’s positioned it too well.
Attempting to rub the covering off against my shoulder is equally ineffective.
A branch snaps to my right. Close, but not too close.
I jerk my head in that direction, though I can’t see.
The desire to call Caine again wars with an instinct that feels centuries old: if I call out in the dark, someone will answer, but it may not be someone—or something—I want to find me.
It’s Caine.
The noise was definitely Caine.
Unless…