Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ariana
I watched him breathe. Slow. Shallow. Steady.
But I knew better than to relax.
I’d endured my fair share of concussions, courtesy of Victor.
I remembered every excruciating second. The nausea.
The disorientation. The pressure in my skull like someone was slowly squeezing a vice.
The way light cut like glass. The way sound made me want to scream.
The way my own body felt like a stranger.
It’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
Despite everything, Henry Fontaine was not my worst enemy.
I sat on the floor beside the couch, my legs folded beneath me, my focus pinned to the man in front of me. This stranger who had taken me. Terrified me. Challenged me.
His features were slack in sleep, apart from his brows. They were drawn tight, as though he was fighting something. A bad dream maybe. A worse memory.
His dark hair, damp with sweat, curled slightly at the nape. A bruise was forming near his temple, the skin already purple-blue.
He looked nothing like the man who’d stepped out of the shadows of the forest and stolen my breath with fear.
This Henry looked breakable. Vulnerable.
The sight twisted something in my chest. Something I didn’t want to name.
Eventually, I stood, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. Every step across the floor felt thunderous in the stillness.
I powered on the one-cup brewer and placed a mug under the spout, the smell of coffee filling the room. After preparing it the way I liked, I headed to the hallway closet, retrieving a pillow and folded blanket. Cato followed me as I moved back to the living room, his tail low, ears alert.
“I know,” I whispered to him, settling into the armchair opposite the couch. “I’m watching him, too.”
The book I’d been reading earlier was still on the end table. I opened it, curled up with the blanket, and tried to focus on the words.
But every few pages, my lids drifted. Each time they did, I forced myself up and walked through the cabin. I checked the door locks. Looked out the windows. Verified Henry was breathing.
Cato sat by the couch like a sentry, refusing to leave his master’s side. I didn’t understand the bond they had, but it somehow made me trust Henry more. This dog would die for him.
After a few hours of doing everything in my power to stay awake, I knelt beside the couch again, watching as Henry’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
“Henry,” I said quietly, pressing my fingers to his shoulder.
He stirred, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Henry,” I said again, a little firmer.
“Five more minutes,” he grumbled.
“That’s not how this works.” I gently shook him. “I need you to open your eyes.”
He blinked against the soft light filling the space, squinting as if I’d stabbed him. His pupils were uneven at first before they adjusted.
“What’s your name?”
“Henry Fontaine,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
“Your mother’s name?” I didn’t know why I asked him. I didn’t even know his mother’s name to verify if it was right or not.
“Sylvia.” He swallowed hard.
“And your father’s?”
He tensed, his whole body coiling like a taut wire.
“Henry,” he said again, but not the same way he did when giving his name. His voice dropped an octave. Clipped. Quiet. A warning and a plea at once. It made me curious about his father. Why he seemed to hate the man who was most likely his namesake.
“And what’s my name?” I asked.
His face softened as his gaze drifted to meet mine. “Princess.” His eyelids grew heavy again and he fluttered them closed. “You’re my princess.”
I kept my eyes glued to him like he might disappear if I blinked. I shouldn’t feel anything after hearing him say that. But something about the way he said it, soft and reverent, dismantled my defenses just enough to let the warmth in.
I sat beside him, allowing myself to rake my gaze over his face. From his strong brow. To his square jaw. To his lips. This man was my captor. Yet I couldn’t stop staring at his lips. Full. Firm. Capable of cruelty.
Capable of tenderness too, maybe.
Would he kiss with desperation? Or with control?
This was the last thing I should be thinking about, considering everything Victor put me through over the past several years. He’d taught me to be wary of desire. Distrustful of charm. Terrified of what love, or the illusion of it, might cost.
Henry repeatedly insisted he wasn’t a good man. If my marriage to Victor taught me anything, it was that I should believe him. Keep my distance. Hell, I should leave right now while I still could.
But I didn’t.
Because something in my gut told me Henry was nothing like Victor. He hadn’t lain a hand on me in violence. He hadn’t demanded obedience. He hadn’t gaslit or threatened or broken me down piece by piece for his own sick satisfaction.
He’d abducted me, yes. But it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like…protection.
And that scared me more than anything.
Eventually, I pulled myself away from Henry, using the opportunity to close my eyes until I needed to wake him up again. But there was no phone, no alarm. So I shuffled back into the kitchen and set the oven timer for two hours.
When I returned, I curled up in the chair with the pillow tucked behind me and the blanket pulled up to my chin. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my bones and sleep pulled me under quickly.
I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep when a cold, wet nose nudged my hand, stirring me awake. My eyes snapped open, and Cato’s face came into view, solemn and insistent.
“What—” I started, then looked past him.
The couch was empty.
My heart lurched into my throat. “Henry?” I called out, scrambling to my feet.
A groan answered me, followed by a loud thud. He was halfway across the living room, swaying dangerously, attempting to grip a side table with one hand and the back of a chair with the other.
“I have to piss,” he mumbled.
I rushed to his side just as his knee buckled. I slid under his arm to support him, catching the bulk of his weight.
“Let me go,” he growled. “I can do it myself.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I said?—”
“And I said no.” I tightened my grip. “You may not like it, but you need my help right now, so suck it up and stop being a pain in the ass.”
His jaw clenched, and he squeezed his eyes tight, breathing hard through his nose. I physically felt the frustration vibrating through him.
I may not have known him all that well, but I’d learned enough to know this man didn’t like to ask for help.
Didn’t want to need anyone.
And now he had no choice but to lean on the one person he couldn’t stand.
Me.
Thankfully, my words sunk into his thick skull and he let me help him the rest of the way. Each step was slow, deliberate, the living room feeling bigger than ever.
When we reached the bathroom, he stopped in the doorway, swaying.
“You can go now.”
“No offense, but I don’t trust you not to fall and crack your head open again.” I guided him toward the toilet, arranging him in front of it.
“So what? You’re going to watch?”
“I have no desire to watch,” I huffed, turning away but keeping a firm arm around his torso.
He cursed under his breath. I wasn’t sure if it was more at me or at himself. Maybe this entire situation. Eventually, he handled his business.
When he finished, I helped him hobble the short distance across the living room. By the time we reached the couch, the amount of energy he was forced to exert just to use the bathroom had taken its toll on him. He was shaking, sweat beading at his temple.
“I’ll get you some water,” I offered, hurrying to the kitchen and filling a glass. I rummaged through the drawers and eventually found a straw.
When I returned, he didn’t even lift his head. I knelt beside him again and pressed the straw to his lips.
“Drink.”
His eyes flicked up to mine. “You planning to poison me, princess?”
“If I wanted you dead, I would have left you outside.”
“I know.” His response hung in the air for several protracted moments. Then he took a long sip of water.
When he was done, I helped him lie down and pulled the blanket over him. Then I climbed back into my chair, exhaustion clawing at me.
I’d gone nights without sleep before, usually out of necessity. Survival. But I was struggling to keep my eyes open.
“You’ve been sleeping there?” Henry’s voice rasped through the silence.
“I haven’t exactly been sleeping. Not really.”
His brow furrowed. “Then what have you been doing?”
“Making sure you don’t die.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at me, as if I was some puzzle he was trying to piece together. Some mystery he was desperately trying to unravel.
“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You could have left. You could still leave.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
I stared at him, my heart thudding over what I was about to admit.
“Because I’m safer with you than I am with my husband.”
I braced for him to press for more information, perhaps scoff at me over what an idyllic life I led.
His only response was a soft snore.