Chapter Five
Nick
I’ve spent ten years imagining what she’d look like bound and trembling in front of me, and reality is better.
I crouch in front of her, my heart thudding with dark anticipation as I reach behind her head to grip the knotted cloth gag.
Meredith’s eyes are wide above the gag, shining with fear and defiance in the low light of the cabin.
My fingers brush the back of her neck as I toy with the knot, and she flinches at the touch.
“Listen carefully,” I murmur, my voice calm but edged with warning. “I’m going to remove the gag. But if you scream or try anything stupid, I’ll have to gag you again and sedate you until you learn to behave. Understand?”
Her breath hitches behind the cloth. For a moment, she just stares, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow, and tug gently on the gag to remind her I’m in control.
Finally she jerks a nod. Small, but there.
“That's it,” I praise softly. “Be a good, quiet girl for me.”
With deliberate slowness, I untie the gag.
The fabric is damp with her saliva as I pull it free from her lips.
She coughs the moment it’s out, sucking in a deep breath of the cool, musty air.
Red marks mar the corners of her mouth where the gag bit into her soft skin.
I resist the urge to run my thumb over those tender impressions, there will be time for gentle touches later, once she understands.
For a long beat she just breathes, gulping air and gathering courage. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, raw with confusion and hurt. When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse and trembling.
“Why?” Meredith whispers. It’s just one word, but it cracks in the quiet room. A tear slips down her cheek, tracing a shiny line through the grime on her skin.
My chest tightens at the sight of her tears—tears I swore I’d never see her cry again. I reach out and gently wipe the lone drop away with my thumb, my touch lingering on her cheek. Her skin is warm and satin-soft against my rough fingertips, and I savor the feel.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Don’t cry.”
Her chin trembles. “Why are you doing this?” She swallows, throat working. “What do you want? If this is about money—about the plaza—I can fix it. You have no idea who is on my payroll. Let me go now and I can make this disappear.”
There she is. Even tied up on a cabin floor, she tries to negotiate, to control the damage.
A humorless laugh slips out. “Money?” The word tastes sour. “I don’t give a damn about your money, Meredith.” I let my thumb slide along her cheekbone, slow, intimate. “All I want for Christmas is you, Sugarplum.”
At the old nickname, I feel her body tense up against the wall. Her eyes narrow in wary confusion.
“Don’t—” Her voice snags. “Don’t call me that.”
I lean in, bracing one hand on the log wall by her head, boxing her in. We’re a breath apart now; I can feel the heat of her panic against my skin.
“Why?” I ask softly. “Does it sound familiar?”
Meredith presses her lips together, refusing to answer. But the telltale quiver of her chin, the flicker of recognition in her eyes—it gives her away.
I smile, and I know it’s the kind of smile that used to scare the others back then. After she left. The kind that says I know something you don’t.
“Sugarplum,” I coo, tilting my head as I stare into her eyes. “How could you forget me so easily?”
She stares up at me, confusion knitting her brow. “What…?”
I study her face, tracing the adult features over the ghost of the girl I knew: the slope of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the angry eyes.
Ten years have sharpened her, but she’s still her.
I understand her confusion, after all the man that used to call her by the same nickname is much older and doesn't resemble me at all.
“Did you not like my gift?” I ask lightly. “The snow globe. I had it made just for you.”
The change is instant. Her eyes widen, breath catching. I see it hit: brown paper, gold ribbon, a cabin under glass.
“It was you,” she breathes.
Warm satisfaction unfurls in my chest. Finally. I let my fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, knuckles grazing her jaw. She shudders under the touch.
“It’s been a long time, Sugarplum,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping over the high curve of her cheek. God, I’ve imagined this so many times. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She searches my face then, really looks at me. Her gaze drags over my jaw, my mouth, my eyes. I can almost see her peeling back ten years in her head—stripping away height, muscle, the man—and finding the boy underneath.
Her mouth falls open. “Nicholas...?” she whispers, voice hitching.
“There it is,” I purr. “There’s my girl.”
Horror, disbelief, and something that looks suspiciously like guilt wash over her features. Good. She should feel it. She walked out of that house and never looked back while I rotted in it for years.
She looks me over with new eyes now, taking in the man instead of the costume. Her gaze snags on my shoulders, the breadth of my chest, the hands that just tied and ungagged her. Color crawls into her cheeks.
“You like me better now,” I say, letting a smirk tug at my mouth. “I could feel it in the plaza.”
Confusion flashes across her face, tinted with shame. I lean closer, lowering my voice.
“You were leaning into me under those lights,” I remind her. “Waiting for me to kiss you.” My jaw tightens as I remember how close I was. How badly I wanted to taste her there, instead of here. “I almost did. But I needed to bring you home first.”
The word hangs in the air. Home.
It pulls her focus away from me, finally. She tears her gaze from my face to look around, really seeing the room for the first time.
The oil lamp on the dresser throws a thin circle of amber light over rough log walls.
Shadows pool in the corners. The air is thick with smoke from the fire in the next room, the dry tang of old wood and something green and sharp—pine boughs I dragged in hours ago.
The floorboards are scarred and dusty under her knees.
Her eyes catch on the window. The glass is wavy with age, the night beyond it black and close. But she doesn’t have to see what’s outside to know it’s there. I know the shape of that dread on her face.
Across the clearing, past the thin screen of trees, sits the sagging two-story house we grew up in. Peeling paint. Boarded windows. Rotting steps. A silhouette of misery backlit by moonlight.
“No,” she whispers, so softly I almost don’t catch it. Her voice is drenched in dread. “No, no, no...”
A cold smile touches my lips as I watch her. “Yes,” I breathe, confirming what she didn’t truly ask. “We’re back where it all started.”
She explodes into motion. One second she’s frozen; the next she’s surging up, scrambling to her feet despite the rope around her ankles. She sways, nearly goes down, then finds her balance by sheer force of panic.
I follow her up automatically, hands out to catch her if she falls. Even now, the idea of her cracking her head on these boards makes my stomach roil.
Instead of falling, she drags in breath like she’s going to tear the walls down with it.
“Help!” Meredith screams. “Somebody help me!”
The sound is sharp and raw, rattling the little room, ricocheting off the logs. For a heartbeat, I’m twelve again in that house across the clearing—hearing her younger voice shredding itself on the same word, small fists slamming against a locked door while the TV blared and nobody moved.
Something snaps inside me.
I lunge and slam my hand over her mouth, cutting off the next scream. My other arm bands around her waist and drags her back hard against me. She fights like she’s on fire, kicking and twisting, eyes wild.
“Enough,” I hiss into her ear.
I’m squeezing too tight. I feel it in the way her body bucks, in the wheeze of air against my palm.
My fingers dig into her ribs, hard enough that she’ll be bruised.
For one dangerous second, I don’t care. I want her to stop screaming, to stop acting like I’m the monster who left us there instead of the one who dragged her away.
She jerks under my hold, her heel catching my shin. Pain spikes up my leg. My grip tightens reflexively, her spine arching under my arm. Her muffled cry goes sharp and choked.
Easy.
The word flashes through my head like a warning light. I force my hand to loosen, to slide from crushing to just covering. I ease my arm a fraction, enough that her lungs can actually fill.
Her struggles start to weaken, movements going jerky and uncoordinated as her body burns through what little oxygen she has. When her knees finally buckle, I shift my hold and lower her back to her knees, keeping a firm grip on her until she’s steady.
I peel my hand away from her mouth, but keep my arm locked around her middle, holding her back against my chest. She drags in ragged gulps of air, a sob breaking free with each inhale.
“Please…” she gasps, the word brushing my palm.
I catch her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilt her face up, forcing her to look at me. Tears shine on her cheeks. Her lashes are wet spikes, her mouth swollen from the gag and my hand. She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.
“You promised you’d be quiet” I whisper, brushing my thumb over her trembling lower lip. “And right now, you’re failing spectacularly at that.”
She chokes on a sob. I feel the warmth of her tears on my fingers, the heat of her panting breath. It takes everything in me not to crush my mouth to hers and swallow those cries. But I force myself to hold back, to stay in control.
“Think,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and close to her ear. “How many nights did we sit out here and scream for someone to come?”
I jerk my chin toward the window, toward the ghost of the house in the trees.