Chapter 5
SERAPHINA
The warmth hits me like a brick when he carries me back inside.
I should fight. Should kick and scratch and scream. But my body has nothing left. My limbs feel like lead, muscles trembling with exhaustion. The cold has seeped so deep into my bones that the heat from the fireplace actually hurts, pins and needles spreading through frozen flesh.
He sets me down on my feet near the fire, but keeps one arm around my waist—steadying me or restraining me, I'm not sure which. Probably both.
My legs nearly buckle. Only his grip keeps me upright.
The door clicks shut behind us and he locks it.
That sound feels so final. So absolute.
I'm trapped in here with him, and we both know I can't run anymore. My body physically won't let me. My bare feet are raw and bleeding, my lungs burn with every breath, and I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
It’s over.
He's won.
"Easy," he murmurs, his hand rubbing slow circles on my lower back, like he’s trying to sooth me. "You're safe now."
Safe. The word is absurd. I'm not safe. I'm trapped with a man who hunted me through a Christmas tree farm.
His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting my chin so I have to look at him. This close, with the firelight flickering across his features. "Look at me," he says softly.
I'm already looking. I can't seem to look away.
"You're going to be okay," he continues, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not in any way you don't want."
The words should comfort me. They don't. Because the problem isn't that I'm afraid he'll hurt me.
The problem is that I'm afraid of how much I want him to touch me.
"I don't understand," I whisper, my bound hands pressed against his chest. I should be pushing him away. Instead, I'm just... touching him. Feeling the solid warmth of him through his tactical gear. "I don't understand what's happening to me."
"Your body knows what it wants," he says, that dark promise back in his voice. "Even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."
His hand slides from my face down to my throat, fingers wrapping loosely around my neck. Not squeezing, not threatening, just... holding. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, and my breath catches.
He feels it. I know he does, because his lips curve into a knowing smile.
"There it is," he murmurs. "That response you can't hide."
I try to shake my head, to deny it, but his grip on my throat tightens just slightly—not enough to restrict air, just enough to remind me that he's in control.
My core clenches, and heat floods between my thighs.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"You're cold," he says, his free hand moving to the small of my back again. "Shaking. Your lips are almost blue."
It's true. Now that the adrenaline is fading, the cold is catching up with me. My whole body trembles, and not just from fear or arousal. I'm freezing. The wet costume clings to my skin, and my bare feet are going numb again despite the fire.
"We need to get you warm," he says, and then he's moving, guiding me backward toward the massive bed.
Panic flares. "No. No, I—"
"Relax, sugarplum." His voice is patient, almost amused. "I'm not doing anything yet. You're cold. That takes precedence."
Yet. The word hangs between us, full of promise.
He sits me on the edge of the bed, and the red silk sheets are cool against my skin. I watch, wary and confused, as he moves to a chest at the foot of the bed and pulls out thick blankets.
When he returns, he wraps one around my shoulders. Then another. The soft fabric is warm—pre-heated, I realize, probably kept near the fire for exactly this purpose.
He thought of everything. Planned for every detail.
He kneels in front of me, and the position should make him less threatening. It doesn't. If anything, it makes him more dangerous, because now his face is level with mine, his body positioned between my legs, his hands reaching for my frozen feet.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out breathy, uncertain.
"Taking care of you." He lifts one foot gently, examining the damage. His jaw tightens. "Fuck. You really ran yourself ragged, didn't you?"
There's something almost like concern in his voice, which makes no sense. He's the one who made me run. Who chased me until my feet bled and my body gave out.
He reaches for something else in the chest—a first aid kit—and begins cleaning my feet with surprising gentleness. The antiseptic stings, making me hiss, but his touch remains careful, methodical.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask.
"Because you're hurt." He says it like it's obvious, like he's not the reason I'm hurt in the first place.
I watch him work, my mind struggling to reconcile the predator from the chase with this man who's bandaging my feet. His hands are large, calloused, but they're gentle as they wrap soft gauze around my damaged skin.
"There," he says finally, sitting back on his heels. "Better?"
I don't answer. I can't answer. Because nothing about this makes sense.
He rises slowly, and suddenly he's towering over me again. The blankets have slipped from my shoulders, pooling around my waist, leaving my upper body exposed in the torn costume. The bodice is barely holding together, rhinestones missing, one strap hanging loose.
His eyes drag over me slowly, taking in every detail. The torn tulle. The shredded fishnets. The way my chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. The flush spreading across my skin.
"You're beautiful," he says, voice rough. "Even more beautiful than I imagined you'd look like this."
Imagined. Past tense. Like he's been thinking about this. Planning it. Fantasizing about hunting me through the snow and catching me.
"Who are you?" I ask after a few minutes, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
Instead of responding, he reaches for something on the nearby table. The Christmas lights. They pulse in his hands, and my stomach does that confusing flip again—fear and anticipation mixing until I can't tell them apart.
"You’re going to be even more stunning with these wrapped all around you," he murmurs.
He moves toward me with such intent, and I scoot back on the bed instinctively. But there's nowhere to go. The headboard is behind me, and he's between me and the door.
I'm trapped on this bed, wrapped in blankets, my feet bandaged and useless for running.
He's got me exactly where he wants me.
"Stay still," he commands, his knee pressing into the mattress as he climbs onto the bed with me.
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm asking for. For him to stop? To continue? My mind and body are at war.
He doesn't stop. He crawls up the bed until he's over me, his body caging mine, one hand planted on either side of my head. The Christmas lights dangle from one hand, swaying slightly, casting colored shadows across his face.
"I've been patient," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I've let you run and hide. I even let you fight. But now?" His head dips until his lips are a breath away from mine. "Now I'm going to take what's mine."
Mine. The possessiveness in that single word sends a shudder through me.
"I'm not yours," I manage to say, though it comes out weak.
"Such a liar, sugarplum." His nose brushes against mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips. "We both know the truth, even if you’re not ready to say it out loud."
Then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not sweet or tender or asking for permission. It's claiming. Demanding. His mouth crashes against mine with bruising intensity, and I taste peppermint and musk.
I should bite him. I could turn my head away, refuse to participate.
Instead, my mouth opens under his, and I kiss him back.
The moment I respond, he makes a sound low in his throat—satisfaction and hunger—and deepens the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I whimper into his mouth.
My bound hands come up between us, pressing against his chest, but I'm not pushing him away. I'm pulling him closer, fingers curling into his jacket, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control.
He shifts his weight, one hand tangling in my hair and tilting my head to the angle he wants. The kiss turns more demanding, more consuming, and I'm drowning in it. In him. In sensations I don't want to feel but can't resist.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and I'm sure mine look the same.
"That's better," he murmurs, his thumb tracing my kiss-swollen lips. "Stop fighting what you feel."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me again. But not my lips this time. He traces kisses along my jaw, down my throat, to that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. When his teeth scrape against my skin, I arch involuntarily, a moan escaping before I can stop it.
"There's my sugarplum," he says against my neck. "Let me hear those pretty sounds."
His hand slides down my body, over the torn bodice of my costume, cupping my breast through the thin fabric. My nipple is hard—has been hard since the chase started—and when he brushes his thumb over the peak, I gasp.
"Mmm," he groans, doing it again. "I like that."
He's touching me like he owns me. Like he has every right to my body, to my responses, to the sounds I'm making. And the worst part is that I'm letting him. More than letting him—I'm responding, arching into his touch, begging for more with my body.
The blankets have fallen away completely now. He takes advantage, his hand exploring freely. Cupping my breasts, testing their weight, thumbing my nipples until I'm squirming beneath him. Then lower, over my ribs, my waist, my hips.
When his hand slides between my thighs, I freeze.
"Shh," he soothes, though his eyes are anything but soothing. They're dark with intent, focused on my face like he doesn't want to miss a single reaction. "Let me touch you, sugarplum."
His fingers brush over my inner thigh, pushing the torn tulle out of the way. The tattered fishnets provide no barrier at all. Then he's touching me through my panties, and we both feel the evidence of my arousal.
I'm soaked. Absolutely drenched.
"Fuck," he hisses, his control slipping for the first time. "You're so wet for me."
Shame burns through me, but it's mixed with need so intense I can barely think straight. His fingers stroke over the damp fabric, finding my clit through the thin material and applying just enough pressure to make me whimper.
"That's it," he encourages, his mouth finding my neck again. "Let yourself feel how much you want this."
He rubs slow circles over my clit, and I can't stop my hips from rolling, seeking more friction. It feels good. So good it scares me, because I shouldn't want this. I shouldn’t be spread out on this bed, panting and needy for a man who drugged, kidnapped, and hunted me through the snow.
But I am.
God help me, I am.
"Please," I hear myself beg, though I'm not sure what I'm asking for. More? Less? For him to stop or to never stop?
"Please what?" His voice is rough against my ear. "Tell me what you want, sugarplum."
I can't form the words. I can barely form thoughts beyond the sensations he's creating with his hand between my legs.
He increases the pressure, rubbing faster, and I feel myself climbing. My bound hands clutch at his shoulders, my legs spreading wider without conscious thought.
"That's my girl," he murmurs. "Take what you need."
The praise does something to me. Makes me arch harder, chase the building pleasure with desperate little movements of my hips. I'm close. So close. Just a little more and I'll—
He stops.
Pulls his hand away completely.
I make a sound of protest that's almost a sob, my body trembling with denied release.
"Not yet," he says, his smile dark and knowing. "You don't get to come until I say so."
The dominance in those words only makes me wetter.
He sits back on his heels, looking down at me with satisfaction. I'm spread out on his bed, panting and flushed, my costume in tatters, my body clearly desperate for him. I look like exactly what I am—caught prey.
"You're perfect like this," he says, reaching for the Christmas lights again. "But this will make it even better."
The lights flicker in his hands, and I watch with helpless fascination as he uncoils them slowly.
"These," he says, holding them up so I can see them clearly, "are going to look so fucking sexy wrapped around your skin."
My breath catches. "What are you going to do?"
His smile is that of a predator. "I'm going to decorate you and wrap you in lights until you're glowing. And then?" He leans down until his lips brush my ear. "Then I'm going to unwrap you properly and take everything I want."
A shudder runs through me—fear and arousal so intertwined I can't separate them.
"First, though," he continues, sitting back again, "I need you to do something for me."
"What?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"Take off that costume." His eyes gleam in the firelight. "Slowly. I want to watch."