Taken in the Tree Farm (Dark Nights Collection #2)

Chapter 1

SERAPHINA

The cold hits me first.

Not the gentle kiss of winter air, but the sharp bite of snow seeping through thin fabric, numbing my skin where it touches my bare thighs.

My eyelids feel heavy, weighted down more than what feels natural.

When I finally pry them open, the world swims in and out of focus.

All I can see is a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights and shadowed evergreens.

Where am I?

I try to sit up, but my arms won't cooperate. They're pulled in front of me, wrists bound together with a long strip of bubblegum pink velvet, I realize, as my vision sharpens. It's pretty, but it holds firm when I test it.

Panic flares in my chest.

I'm lying in snow. Fresh powder surrounds me, unmarred except for the indent my body has made.

Above, fat flakes drift down through the darkness, landing on my face, melting against my flushed cheeks.

The sky is a sheet of black studded with stars, but the ground glitters with thousands of lights—gold, silver, red, green, blue—strung through rows and rows of Christmas trees that stretch in every direction.

My breath comes faster, white puffs of air visible in the freezing night.

What happened? How did I get here?

I force myself to sit up, fighting through the grogginess. Everything feels thick and sluggish, my thoughts wading through molasses. Was I drugged? I feel disconnected from the world around me.

I look down at myself and my stomach drops.

I'm dressed like something out of a twisted fairy tale.

A pink tulle dress flares around my hips, layer upon layer of sheer fabric that does nothing to block the cold.

The bodice hugs my ribs, rhinestones shaped like tiny candies catching the light with every shaky breath.

My legs are covered in sheer, sparkly fishnet tights.

Pink ballet shoes are laced up my calves, and they're already soaked through from the snow.

I reach up with my bound hands and feel a crown perched on my head. I can't see it, but the weight of it feels expensive.

I think it's a sugarplum fairy costume.

Did he dress me in this? Did he bring me here, tie me up, and leave me in the middle of a Christmas tree farm in the dead of night?

Terror floods through my veins, hot and paralyzing.

I struggle to my feet, slipping in the damp slippers.

The movement sends a wave of dizziness through me, and I have to brace my bound hands against a nearby candy cane to stay upright.

The stick is smooth against my palms, dusted with snow.

Christmas lights are wrapped around the cane, twinkling red and white in an alternating pattern that makes my eyes water.

The tree farm stretches endlessly in every direction.

Rows of pines and firs, each one decorated with strings of lights that morph the landscape into an entirely different world.

Candy cane stakes mark pathways between the rows, their red and white spirals glowing beneath spotlights.

In the distance, I can make out a few things—a massive gingerbread house, a workshop building, archways made of twisted peppermint.

It's beautiful.

And yet so terrifying.

This place looks like a winter wonderland, like magic or something out of a movie, but I'm alone and bound and dressed in this stupid fucking costume. Who does this to another person?

Then it begins, reaching my ears ever so softly.

Music.

Faint at first, drifting through the cold air from speakers I can't see.

A Christmas carol, but it sounds wrong. The melody is distorted, slowed down.

"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" plays on bells that sound cracked and discordant.

The effect is haunting, eerie, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up immediately.

And beneath the music…footsteps.

The crunch of boots on fresh snow.

My heart slams against my ribs. I spin around, scanning the shadows between the trees, but the lights create too many dark pockets, too many places to hide. The footsteps continue, steady and unhurried, getting closer.

Then I hear his voice.

It's deep and masculine, laced with amusement.

"Run, sugarplum."

The words cut through the icy night, making my lips part as my jaw drops.

He continues. "Let's see how far you can get before I catch you."

Fear explodes into adrenaline. I don't give myself time to think, and I definitely don't question him. I run.

My soaked slippers slip on snow and ice, but I push forward into the maze of Christmas trees. The lights blur past me in streaks of color. Branches catch at my tulle skirt, snagging the delicate fabric while cold air burns my lungs with every gasping breath.

Behind me, I hear him laugh.

The sound shouldn't be sexy. It should be horrifying—and it is—but there's something about the timber of his voice, the confidence in that dark chuckle, that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.

And I hate that the shiver has nothing to do with how cold it is outside. What the hell is wrong with me?

I veer left, following a path marked by candy cane stakes. The eerie music follows me, or maybe it's playing from multiple speakers throughout the farm. The slowed-down waltz creates a nightmare soundtrack, each note echoing in my skull.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Nothing but shadows and twinkling lights. But I can still hear him. His boots on the snow. Steady. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

Because he does, doesn't he? We're in the middle of nowhere. There's no one here to help me. No cars, no houses visible beyond the trees, nothing but this magically terrifying winter landscape.

My bound hands make running difficult. I pump my arms, but the velvet rope restricts my movement, throwing off my balance. I nearly trip over an exposed root hidden beneath the snow and barely catch myself.

The path curves right, taking me deeper into the farm. The trees grow denser here, their branches heavy with snow. Lights wind through every trunk, every branch, creating a disorienting effect. Shadows dance and shift with the sway of the trees.

I duck beneath an archway made of candy canes—massive things, taller than me, twisted together to form a tunnel. Red and white stripes glow from within, backlit like they're made of colored glass. It's stunning. Artistic. Someone put a hell of a lot of thought into this design.

And that’s when realization dawns on me. He knows every path, every hiding spot, every dead end.

And I know nothing.

Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I shove it down. I can't afford to freeze. I have to keep moving, have to find a way out, I have to—

"I can hear you breathing, sugarplum."

His voice is closer now. So much closer.

I bite back a yelp and sprint forward, abandoning the path for the spaces between trees.

Snow falls faster here, thick flakes that cling to my eyelashes and costume.

My legs burn from the cold, the fishnets doing absolutely nothing to protect my skin.

The rhinestones on my dress catch every stray beam of light, probably making me easily visible from fifty yards away.

I'm a walking beacon. A perfectly wrapped present just begging to be caught.

Heat pools low in my belly as I wait for his low voice again, and I hate myself for it.

I need to hide.

Ahead, through the curtain of snow and lights, I spot a gingerbread house. Not a decoration—a full-sized building made to look like one. Brown walls with white icing details, gumdrop accents the size of basketballs, a roof that looks frosted. Lights outline every edge.

It's absurd and right now, it's my only option.

I stumble around the side and press myself against the wall. The surface is cold painted wood textured to look like gingerbread. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must be able to hear it.

I strain to listen past the blood rushing in my ears, past the distorted music. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the soft whisper of falling snow and my own labored breathing.

Then—footsteps.

Slow and deliberate, coming from somewhere to my left.

I press harder against the wall. The tulle of my dress compresses, but there's so much fabric. I'm not exactly built for stealth.

The footsteps stop.

Silence stretches out, heavy, yet teasing.

"You look so pretty when you run from me."

The deep voice comes from somewhere in the darkness, echoing off the trees. I can't pinpoint the direction. He could be anywhere.

"The way that dress bounces with each step. The way your breath comes in those desperate little gasps."

My throat tightens. Fuck.

"I wonder how long you'll last before those pretty legs give out."

I close my eyes. I need a plan. But which way do I run? Where do I go?

The footsteps resume, circling.

My eyes land on the corner of the gingerbread house. If I can just make it around to the other side—

A shadow moves at the edge of my vision.

I bolt.

My slippers slip on packed snow but I don't fall, don't stop. Behind me, I hear him move—faster now, but still not sprinting. So he likes to play with his food before he devours it…

The path opens into a wider clearing dotted with candy sculptures—oversized lollipops, peppermint discs the size of serving platters, chocolate kiss shapes taller than me.

I weave between them, my bound hands making balance impossible.

The lights here are multicolored, painting everything in shifting rainbow hues.

I can hear him behind me. He’s closer than before.

My lungs burn. My legs shake. How long have I been running? Five minutes? Ten? It feels like hours when it’s below freezing and I’m dressed like a sugarplum fairy.

There's another structure ahead—some kind of workshop building. As I get closer, a sugary scent envelopes me. The door hangs slightly open.

Without thinking, I slip inside as quietly as I can.

The interior is dark except for ambient light filtering through the windows. Props clutter the space—oversized candy molds, fake cauldrons of "chocolate," strings of lights waiting to be hung. I press myself into the darkest corner, behind a large cauldron.

My dress glows even in the darkness, the rhinestones catching every stray beam of light. I curse whoever designed this costume, even as a traitorous part of my brain acknowledges how beautiful it must look amongst the snow and twinkling lights.

Through the window, I see him walk past.

My first real look.

He's tall—easily over six feet. Broad shoulders fill out dark clothing. He moves with predatory grace, completely confident, unhurried. Like he knows there's nowhere I can go that he won't eventually find me.

He pauses, head turning slightly like he's scenting the air.

Then he moves on.

I wait, counting the seconds.

The door creaks open, and my breath catches.

He fills the doorway, backlit by colored lights that turn him into a shadow with a halo. I can't see his face, but I feel his gaze finding me in the darkness.

"Found you."

The words are soft, almost gentle, but they send ice through my veins.

I grab the first thing my bound hands touch—a fake candy cane prop—and hurl it at him.

It bounces harmlessly off his chest, but it gives me the split second I need.

I lunge for the tiny side door on the opposite side of the building.

It wasn’t built for an adult human, let alone a woman dressed in layer upon layer of tulle.

It's small, barely large enough, but adrenaline makes me fast. I dive through, tulle catching on the frame. I hear fabric rip as I tumble out into the snow.

His hand catches my ankle.

The grip is iron-strong, effortlessly yanking me back. I kick with my other foot, catching something—his hand, his arm—and he releases me with a pained grunt.

I scramble away, my fishnets completely shredded now, one slipper hanging by its laces. I kick both shoes off and run barefoot through the snow, the cold so intense it burns.

Behind me, I hear him let out a low, menacing chuckle. He sounds almost amused.

God help me, it does something to me.

I run until I find myself behind the gingerbread house again, or maybe a different one—I've lost all sense of direction. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my bare feet completely numb. I press against the cold wall.

The eerie music continues. Snow falls. Lights twinkle.

He’s out there. I can hear the crunch of his boots in the snow with each confident step.