Chapter 3
Sawyer
My body is encompassed in warmth, which makes little sense considering the last thing I recall was being outside in the snow. Driving…and then vague memories of frost on my skin, like the window was opened.
Why would the window be open while driving in sub-zero temperatures? The trip’s already having me question my IQ, but I’m not that dumb.
Wherever I am, my limbs are weighted when stretching. Pain in my skull radiates as if I have a hangover, but drinking definitely didn’t happen last night. With a groan, my hand applies pressure on my head to end the thumping, but as my fingers slide through the strands, they’re…wet?
My eyes pop open to a wooden ceiling lit up by a dull yellow glow.
Strange, since I have zero recollection of arriving at the rental cabin. Am I that out of it, last night was a blur lost to exhaustion? If that’s the case, I should be thankful to still be alive.
Rubbing my head isn’t really making the throb go away, but rather, reminds me of the darkness of last night—seconds after the moose rammed into my car. Then there was snow. And glass shattering onto my lap. My gaze dives down to find a blanket covering my legs.
An accident? Fuck, my head hurts too much to be thinking about this.
Pushing my elbows into the bed, I manage to get myself into an upright position and determine what form of hell the universe is now putting me through. Everything in life lets me down, so it only makes sense that my holiday does as well.
There, I discover my next form of hell in the shape of a man sitting on the end of the bed, watching me.
As presumed, this vacation will result in my death. Mountain man probably rescued me only to tie me up, torture me, and eventually murder me. As long as he doesn’t rape me beforehand, I think I’ll be okay with it. Not actually, but of all options…
Man or bear? Always choose the bear.
He hasn’t moved, despite me being awake.
His dark hair is slightly shaggy and is parted to reveal the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person.
They seem as black as a pupil, but it’s probably only the dull light shadowing them.
His skin is pale, which makes sense considering it’s the middle of winter and no one’s tanning this time of year.
He exudes danger. As we size each other up, he remains still—deathly still. It’s eerie, really. His chest isn’t even rising and falling with his breaths. My own body tenses in response. Whether from him or this situation, I don’t know…
He’s a man in the mountains, and you’re in his bed. This is everything opposite of safe.
Yet, I find myself leaning forward to inspect his fair skin and aristocratic features. He kind of reminds me of the rich assholes who come into the restaurant I waitress at. The ones who act like they own the place—and, by extension, me. Sans suit, anyway.
Being compelled to be near the probable-killer indicates the crash certainly gave me brain damage.
I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s regretting bringing the frozen woman into his house. It’s tempting to take in my surroundings, but looking away from the would-be murderer is the moment he’ll undoubtedly lunge.
“Hi.”
That’s something to start with.
At my barely whispered greeting, he moves so quickly, I swear he’s a blur.
I yelp, jerking as far back as possible until my back crashes into the wall, rendering escape another silly dream.
His toned arms circle me; his hands press into the pillow I’m presently making my life raft, which puts him at an unnervingly close distance.
Two inches, which he divides into one by leaning closer. He clearly has no concept of personal space, but pointing this out may anger my kidnapper-slash-rescuer, and who knows what he’ll do in response.
His eyes—which are definitely pure black—study my face. My lips, cheeks, up to my hairline, but never my eyes. After three passes, in which my breath remains trapped by the question of his next action, his head slightly tilts to the side.
A few tense seconds pass. His unearthly gaze roves down my chin and pauses on my neck. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and then his lips part slightly and a deep rumble fills the room.
Okay?
He continues down to my shirt: the tank top I dressed in yesterday, beneath a woolen cardigan. Since my car’s weak heating system struggled to keep out Alberta’s ungodly cold, I was also wearing my winter jacket while driving. Thankfully, the coat seems to be the only thing he removed.
Him being honourable is a good start.
He stops at the dip in my breasts, and when I’m about to not-so-subtly cover myself with my cardigan, he moves on, skimming the rest of my body until his gaze erases the numbness created by both fear and the chill. He’s openly checking me out, having me rethink my last point about his honour.
All this, and still no verbal greeting.
If I scream and push him away, I question the likelihood of escape and if we’re close enough to others to even have a chance of getting away. If escaping will be needed, is the bigger question. A stranger in the dark woods sounds like the making of a horror movie, but he hasn’t done anything…yet.
When he reaches my thighs, his gaze jerks back up to my face, and his brows dip low. “Why do I want to both eat and protect you?”
What the actual fuck? Who says something like that, especially to the person they’re talking about?
“Um…” No, seriously, how does one respond to that? “Thanks? And thank you for saving me.”
Maybe moving off the topic of eating me will make him less hungry.
“You were in an accident. A moose hit your vehicle.”
Like his aristocratic features, his voice is something else entirely. Most guys grunt, and complete sentences are a thing requiring energy. While their voices can be downright annoying, his is something I could and would happily listen to for hours on end.
“It came out of nowhere.”
“It came from the woods because that’s where it lives, and you were trespassing.”
Right… Way to make this awkward.
“You were outside in the cold, and what, found me?” Only psychopaths go on nighttime walks in negative temperatures, which says enough about this guy.
“Something like that.” He grins, and I’m so thrown by the sudden youthfulness, my mind blanks. He doesn’t seem much older than me, but somehow gives off older vibes. It doesn’t make sense, but like his voice, there’s something about him that is hard to place.
He’s a snowflake that’s a bit too unique.
“Well, thanks.” With recollection of my accident, I prod the place on my head that was throbbing but isn’t anymore. There are pain relievers in my purse, but a quick scan of the room tells me he didn’t grab that from the crash.
His eyes track my movements, and he slowly backs to the end of the bed, removing the immediate potential threat caused by his proximity.
“You were bleeding a little, so I cleaned you up.” Annoyance sharpens his tone, so either I’m a disruptor to his life or the possible-murderer did something good for a change and he doesn’t like wasting resources.
Thinking about my purse has me wondering how he pulled me from the wreck and got me to this cabin—wherever we are. It’s negative a billion degrees, and no one in their right mind would be taking an evening walk, especially carrying another.
Questions flicker through my head. I start to speak but stop when his brow lifts. The details don’t matter. Getting out alive does.
I’d like to say saving me, cleaning the blood, and letting me rest is indicative of good intentions—but I’ve watched TV. You can never be too careful. This could just be the calm before the storm.
“Why are you this far up the mountain?”
The truth seems harmless, but if the secretive mass murderer learns I’m not a local, it may be more reason to hurt me. Like, he’s figuring out the possibilities of being caught.
But what other reason could I give him besides the truth?
“Vacationing. I rented a cabin to get away for the holidays. See the mountains and all that.” I manage a weak smile, hoping he’ll pity me because his blank expression is unsettling.
Months of saving went into that car, and it’s gone. Months of saving went into this vacation, too, and it’s completely gone to hell. Even if he lets me walk free, how am I supposed to reach the rental—and then eventually home? At this point, gifting it to Mom for drugs would have saved my life.
Oh, the irony.
Hopefully my saviour has a vehicle and a phone. And possibly a bank loan so I can sell him my soul in exchange for funding my return home.
“You’re sad.”
He’s close again, kneeling in front of me, but not as near as before. There’s another head tilt as he slowly reaches for me, index finger landing on my cheek, catching the single tear. He holds it up to the dim light and then abruptly brings his finger to his mouth.
Um.
If the mountain man is eating my tears, there’s no telling what else he’ll do.
For now, I keep him talking while pretending I didn’t witness that.
“I’m sad because a lot of time and money went into this trip, and it’s wasted.
I’m not from here and have no way to get home without my car.
” My tongue sweeps across my bottom lip as I try to ignore his intense scrutiny. “Do you have a phone I could borrow?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not letting me borrow it?”
“No, I don’t have one.”
Who doesn’t have a phone these days?
“Alright. How close are we to a town?”
“At your pace? An hour.”
In this weather, my body will curl up and die before reaching anywhere. Somewhere in the woods, my bag is trapped within a smashed vehicle, possessing thicker clothing a walk like that would call for.
Maybe he could lend me a parka.
Another tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away before he makes it a midnight snack.
“Sorry. Life sucks, you know? I’m sitting in a stranger’s house, which obviously wasn’t supposed to happen.
” When he doesn’t move or reply, I’m resigned to the fact that this potential trap is getting nearer and nearer. “What’s your name?”
Knowing my killer’s name allows me to imagine it on a possible suspects list. Once my body is discovered beaten, mauled, cut up—however he decides this will go. My fears over this future are concealed beneath my mental satire.
“Lucian.”
“Lucian,” I can’t help but repeat with bitchy derision, though it’s actually a pretty cool name. “That’s unique. Very old-fashioned.”
At this, he smirks, but the flash of his teeth appears more predator than friendly. “I’m an old-fashioned person, so the name fits. What do I call you, miss?”
Old-fashioned indeed. “Sawyer.”
“Beautiful.”
“Thanks. Uh, Lucian, do you have a bathroom I could use?” If there’s no phone, then finding a place to wash up, stretch my legs, and get some distance from the handsome maybe-murderer intent on sitting too close seems like the next smart move.
I need to continue playing nice and determine how to handle what’s coming.
Without looking away from my face, he points to the door across the room, which gives me leave to study the rest of the place.
It’s a small cabin, probably similar in size to my rental, with a low roof and carvings in the ceiling.
A small kitchen area sits to my right—just a tiny stretch of counter.
There’s a slim fridge, but no stove…or other appliances?
Or anything that indicates he uses this place at all.
Maybe this isn’t where he lives, but a place he got us to for warmth.
A faded couch slumps in the far corner beside an old, clunky TV that isn’t even plugged in. No coffee table. No décor. Just an antique armoire beside the bed.
It’s desolate, like he only uses this place to murder hikers, bury their bodies in the backyard, and then drive home to his happy, unsuspecting family.
Dread trickles down my spine as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, keeping my eyes fixed on him.
He doesn’t budge, even when I pass by, wrapping my cardigan tight around me and skittering to the other side of the room.
My shoes are in the centre from where he must have pulled them off me, resting in a pool of water formed from melted snow.
Once at the bathroom, I peek behind me, finding him in the exact same spot, staring at the place I last was. With a shiver, I quickly shut the door, relieved that it locks.
The bathroom proves to be as strange as the rest of the place. There’s a clawfoot tub with a shower curtain and a shelf storing half-used bottles of soap—brand names too lavish for mountain living. Everything’s clean, which is satisfying, but the lack of…anything…gives me pause.
Toilet paper, most notably.
Um.