Chapter 12
Blair
I wake up to silence, but unfortunately for me, it’s not the curated silence of a penthouse sixty floors above New York traffic.
This silence is dense and thick and feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember why it looks wrong.
But it doesn’t take long for the endless view of wood to bring me back to reality. Dark beams stretching overhead like something out of a wilderness catalog. The faint scent of pine lingers in the air.
I’m in a cabin, like some Little House on the Prairie bullshit. I sit up and look out the window, and instantly, I’m hit with the sight of trees because I’m in the freaking forest.
Gross.
My chest tightens as a memory floods back—his hands, his body, the kiss.
That kiss.
No. I shove that thought away immediately. I will not romanticize kissing my freaking kidnapper.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and my bare feet hit the floor. It’s cold. “No heated floors?” I mutter to myself. “How do people live like this?”
The walls, the dresser, and the ceiling are all wood. There is no marble or travertine to be seen, and the finishes are cheap, like someone DIY-ed this cabin themselves.
“This is barbaric.”
I need to get the hell out of here before I start to smell like pine trees.
I push off the bed and cross to the door, twisting the handle.
It’s locked. Because of course it is. Because I’ve been kidnapped and locked in a lumberyard.
I should probably be panicking, but mostly, I’m insulted.
My family is too wealthy for me to be stuck inside a wilderness cabin.
My father is one of the richest men in our circle.
He knows senators and CEOs. He has private security on speed dial.
If I don’t show up in New York, people will notice.
If I don’t call, if I don’t check in, there will be questions.
There will be action.
There will be a search.
There has to be.
I lift my chin slightly at the thought.
They’ll find me. They’ll trace the SUV he was driving. Surely our cameras caught his license plate. They’ll have the whole damn Boston police force out looking for me and might even call in the army.
This won’t last long. I’ll be rescued soon.
My gaze drifts to the window again, and all I find is an endless sea of trees. There are no roads or rooftops or neighboring estates. Just forest as far as the eye can see.
Immediately, my confidence falters.
We are in the middle of nowhere. Even if there is a search party, what are they searching? Miles of wilderness?
My stomach twists, but I refuse to fall to pieces. Windsor women do not fall to pieces, my mother would say. Windsor women are strong and confident and can handle anything.
I turn away from the window, and when I spot the bathroom, I make the decision to salvage some normalcy. I’ll take a shower. That will make me feel better. That will help me figure out how to get out of this hellhole.
I flick on the light, revealing a clean but painfully simple space. Again. It’s like the Dark Ages. There is no marble or gold fixtures or oversized mirrors. No lush bath towels or robes. Just plastic bullshit like a bathroom is meant for efficiency instead of luxury.
Clearly, the importance of self-care is not understood around here.
If only Kidnapper Kane had had the decency to toss my suitcase in his stupid SUV when he took me, I’d have everything I need to complete my twenty-step skincare routine and daily hair conditioning regimen. At least then, I’d have my doll.
There mere thought of my most beloved possession makes tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away fast. I will not cry. I will not show weakness. I’m a Windsor woman, for fuck’s sake, and Windsor women are strong.
When I turn on the shower and remove my clothes, I catch sight of the singular bottle inside the tub—yes, a freaking tub for a shower. I pick it up and stare at the words, three-in-one.
A shocked laugh escapes my throat. “Is this a joke?” I whisper as I read the rest of the label that showcases shampoo, conditioner, and body wash all combined into one product.
They make this? And people buy it?
Honestly, the marketing idea that the needs of hair and skin are the same should be categorized as a hate crime.
I exhale a deep sigh before stepping into the shower with the stupid bottle. The water pressure is fine, but not perfect. And I resign myself to using one product to wash my body, my hair, and my face.
I can already feel my skin drying out. Good grief. I’m certain cavemen had better products than this. Once I’m done and step out, I wrap my body in one of the pathetically itchy bath towels and start searching for hair products and a hair dryer.
All the drawers are empty, save a hairbrush. No hair dryer. No serums. No face masks. No leave-in hair conditioner.
All I have is a brush and a freaking towel.
People actually live like this?
On a huff, I rub my hair aggressively with the towel, watching it frizz in the mirror. And after I run a brush through it, I have to…leave it…as is.
My mom would be horrified to know I’m going to spend an entire day in this state. I already look younger and softer and…ordinary.
The word makes my throat tighten. I was never meant to be ordinary.
I am special. I was raised to be chosen.
And every lesson, every event, every introduction to powerful people in my parents’ inner circle carefully positioned me toward that future.
It was possible that Damien Snow was the next step in the plan.
That New York was just the beginning of all my dreams and everything my mother had worked so hard for.
But I’m not in New York.
I’m here, inside a cabin in the wilderness after being kidnapped by a vampire who repossesses cars for a living.
God help me.
I let out a sharp breath and march back into the bedroom, opening the dresser in search of something to wear. Of course, all I find are men’s clothes—flannels, T-shirts, jeans, sweatpants.
What the hell is happening right now?!
I slam the drawer shut and start pacing.
“How in the hell did I end up here?” I whisper to myself, anger vibrating from my voice. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be in New York with Damien or, at the very least, at home.”
For all I know, they’ve already given the forty-eight-hour notice, and all the other girls are heading to New York for the Choosing Ceremony too.
Tears prick my eyes, and I swallow hard against the knot in my throat. I will not cry. I will not freaking cry. Windsor women do not cry.
“This is temporary,” I reassure myself. “It will be fixed. Daddy will find a way to fix this. He’ll find me. They’ll find me.”
I move to the door and press my ear against it, but I don’t hear any footsteps or voices or signs of him. My chest tightens, and my mouth turns down at the corners, and I instantly become irritated with myself.
Why do I care where he is?
Rationalizing, I keep my composure because Windsors keep their poise. I just need to know where the threat is. That’s all.
My gaze drifts to the wall beside the bed, and a memory creeps back in uninvited.
His mouth on mine last night.
The way my anger dissolved.
The way my fear shifted into something warmer and safer.
I press my lips together hard. That was just shock and adrenaline and trauma, Blair.
It was not—
I close my eyes briefly, and I can still feel it. The heat of his body. The steadiness of his muscles. The way my body leaned into him like it recognized something before my mind did.
“I do not want him. I hate him,” I whisper, but the words feel lean. And the realization unsettles me far more than the cold floors or the missing marble or the three-in-one body wash.
I shouldn’t want to see him. He kidnapped me. He killed people. He is holding me here in this cabin against my will.
And yet, this room feels emptier without him in it.
Which is the most disturbing thought of all.
Obviously, I’m delirious and tired and probably in shock still.
Soon, someone will come rescue me.
And if they don’t?
I’ll have to find a way to escape.