14. He’s a Gentleman
M y eyes snap open, finding a wood-beamed ceiling. The clap of thunder that woke me still rattles the warped window beside me.
Where am I?
A fire crackles and pops, splashing yellow and gold figures that dance across the stacked log walls.
The most delicious smell tickles my nose, and I breathe deeply.
My fingers twitch on a rough sheet, my head rests on a lumpy pillow, and my leg is inexplicably raised on a pile of blankets.
The one on top of me is much softer, the lining of a leather jacket that smells like maple, bourbon, and pine.
I almost curl into it, but the memories roll in faster than the river that got me here.
Kidnapping, murder, car chase, almost drowning…
Orion…
I turn my head enough to find him leaning against the wooden cot I’m on, his hands tugging his hair.
Only his profile is lit by the glow from the cabin’s potbelly stove.
He stares into the flames, unseeing, deep bags under his eyes, sunken cheeks, and a five o’clock shadow that’s at least a day long.
When was the last time he slept?
Actually, screw that. I do not care.
Determined to keep hating him, I shift to get up. The wood groans beneath me, and my muscles protest with it, dragging a whimper from my throat.
Orion lurches up, scrambling to face me.
“Luna?” His deep voice is a hoarse rasp. “You’re… you’re awake. Baby, you’re awake . Thank fuck .”
What looks like relief has him sinking back with a thud , raking both hands through his hair and pulling at the roots. If the spiky, haphazard mop is any indication, he’s done it at least a million times.
Annnddd he’s shirtless.
Jesus, like I need that.
I blink, forcing my eyes not to drag over the dark ink on his chest, the birthmark that matches the skull on my leg… and the trail of hair disappearing beneath the band of his boxer briefs.
“Where are your clothes?” I groan, slowly sitting up on my elbows, minding every throbbing bruise.
But the leather jacket slips down, wafting warm air over my chest. My bare chest.
I peek under the jacket, finding I’m only in panties.
“Where the hell are my clothes?” I gasp, snatching the jacket up to cover myself.
He doesn’t seem to notice my crisis, his hand pressed over his chest and breath unsteady, like he’s seen a ghost.
“Dadgum, woman. Don’t do that to me again.”
“Do what?” I quirk my brow. “Wake up?”
He huffs, holding up his heavy-duty watch. “You were out for twenty-one hours and forty-six minutes.”
“A day ?” I jolt up, and groan at the aches in my bones, catching the leather jacket before it falls again.
He nods, then winces. “The tranquilizer dart… it was meant for a man. I’ve never tranq’d a woman before.”
“Gee,” I grumble. “So happy to be your first.”
His shoulders droop, features ragged. Is that worry and guilt I see? Good. He deserves it.
“I didn’t think about how you’d already been drugged. Then you got a full tranq dose.” His eyes drag over my body, and his voice cracks. “And you’re so small.”
I try to ignore the devastated remorse on his face and look away. “It’s funny how you wanna marry me so bad that you’re willing to kill me.”
“Fuck, I’m so goddamn sorry,” he rasps, bringing an unwelcome twinge in my chest.
“Apology not accepted.” I cross my arms over the jacket and refuse to look at him, scanning my surroundings. Priority one? Clothes.
My outfit hangs from hooks in the rafters above the toasty cast-iron stove squatting at the back wall.
Its rounded belly glows faint orange, filling the cabin with the comforting scent of wood smoke.
My bodice and tutu look crisp and dry, but brown from the river.
The ballet flats’ satin is frayed and stained beside my garter.
“How do you feel?” Orion rumbles, and I relent, meeting his gaze again.
Those multicolored eyes shine in the light, and that voice—God, his voice.
I try not to think about the way he taunted me when I ran away from him.
The fact that I was turned on and scared will be all kinds of fucked-up fodder for my therapist. Maria’s been through a lot with me, but she might cut me loose after that little confession.
Yeah right, she loves me.
“Let’s see… how do I feel,” I say sarcastically. Trying to focus. I shake my head, but pain screams back, making me grimace and press my fingers to my temples. “Oh, like someone who survived a maniac, falling off a cliff, and nearly drowning through two waterfalls. How do you feel, Orion?”
“Walked into that one.” He sighs. “I feel like shit, Luna. None of this is going how I wanted.”
“And how did you expect your kidnapping to go, exactly?” A whiff of stale dust hits my nostrils, distracting me from my rhetorical question, and my nose wrinkles. “Ew, is this mattress sanitary?”
“As sanitary as we could hope for at the moment. I found fresh sheets in a tub that had layers of dust on the lid. Everything inside was fine. The mattress was covered with plastic too. You know, like the ones old grannies use to protect their couches in between Sunday suppers?”
“Um… not really?”
“Well,” he mumbles, shrugging. “It was like that.”
Then he stands, almost too tall for the low ceiling as he walks over to the stove.
The fire flickers over the skeleton ballerina on his ribs, making her dance along his corded muscles.
His boxers leave nothing to the imagination, so I snap my gaze away, pretending to study my nails.
Unfortunately, there’s not a speck of dirt in them to inspect?—
Wait.
“How am I clean?” I muse. My eyes jerk up and I sing off key with a touch of anger in the tone, “O- ri -on? How the hell am I cle-ean ?” I yank his black T-shirt up from my legs and put it on using the jacket as a makeshift curtain.
“And I’d like to revisit the whole me-being-naked issue. You have some explaining to do, jerk.”
Orion’s reaches awkwardly for the stove like the grate might open up and eat him whole. I frown as he uses a cloth to deposit two long pieces of tin foil off the flat top to their respective plates.
“I found washcloths and a fresh bar of soap,” he answers. “I didn’t want you to have to sleep with that river dirt on you, and your tutu was practically freezing before I got the fire started.” He scowls. “If you’re worried about me doing anything shitty, I didn’t. I’m a gentleman.”
“A gentleman,” I echo pointing at my sore butt cheek. “You. Shot. Me. In. The. Ass .”
He sighs, like I’m the unreasonable one.
The nerve.
“Would a non-gentleman offer you dinner?”
As he peels back the tin foil, my nostrils flare at the scent of steamed fish stuffed with rosemary, thyme, and other herbs that he must’ve gathered from the bundles hanging in the rafters.
I wince as I slide off the cot, drawn to the plate like a cartoon character to a pie steaming in a windowsill.
“Careful now,” his low voice raises goosebumps on my skin. “Caught the trout this morning. Found a line and hook in another crate.”
When I look up, heat reflects in his eyes as he watches me crawl toward him.
I glance down to see the neckline hanging low.
He can’t see much, but I take delight that the bulge growing in his boxer briefs is thanks to me, and even more delight knowing he’s not getting so much as a tug to relieve the pressure in that huge cock that I’m dying to have in my?—
Jesus. Get it together, bitch.
I sit up, careful of my probably sprained ankle, and my eyes flick between him and the fish.
“What if there are spiderwebs in the herbs?”
He rolls his eyes. “There aren’t. I checked first, then smoked them for good measure. Here. Eat. You’re hungry.”
My stomach growls, making any objection seem even pettier than I already have been. I take the plate and sit while he sets his near the cot, farther from the stove.
“Yeah, because someone kidnapped me two days ago and didn’t even have the decency to give me so much as a protein bar.”
“Come here.” He ignores me, nodding to the space beside him. “Sit with me.”
I pretend to think. “Hmm. No.”
He doesn’t even warn me before scooping me up in a flash. I yelp, but he just as quickly deposits me gently on the ground, well away from the stove.
“What the hell?”
“You were too close to the fire,” he grumbles, setting my plate by his before plopping down across from me.
“Wow, dramatic? I wasn’t even that close.” My eyes narrow to slits at the over-the-top male until he circles back to my earlier argument.
“And I did have protein bars for you, actually.” He peels back his fish’s skin with his knife and pushes the herbs aside, then lifts a brow. “But if you’ll recall, someone didn’t even want the water I offered.”
“Can you blame me?” I mutter, mentally taking notes as he separates the meat from the bones in one skilled move. The last thing I want is more “city girl” taunts after royally screwing up my escape.
But I’m brutalizing the already dead fish, and when Orion takes pity on me, taking my plate, I let him.
“No. I don’t blame you. I expected it.” He makes quick work of the bones. “And I wanted it. I want my wife to stand on her own at my side, and I knew I’d get that from you.” He gathers a hefty bite of fish on his fork and raises it, eyes on my lips. “Open for me.”
My mouth waters—for the fish, obviously. I really, really want that bite. If I take the fork from him, then the fish could fall off. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy?
So that’s why I don’t knock his hand away.
Or maybe I like the way my belly flips and my nipples perk under his gaze as I lean forward, opening my mouth. His multicolor eyes dart up to mine as I close around the fork and take the bite before pulling away with a whimpering moan.
So. Damn. Good.
The rosemary and thyme coax the buttery, smoky smoothness from the trout, but it’s Orion’s smolder that warms me from the inside out.
Dammit, girl, stay strong.
As I sit back, shooting pain stabs up from my ankle and shin. My vision tunnels and I suck in a breath.