Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Priscilla
Four days. It's been four days since Woodrow brought me to this cabin, since my life turned upside down.
Four days of his hands on my body, his cock inside me, his voice in my ear calling me his little girl.
Four days of fear and lust and confusion, all swirling together until I can't separate one from the other.
But something else is happening too, something I didn't expect.
The fear is fading, replaced by something warmer, something deeper.
Something that feels dangerously like trust. Like connection.
Like the beginning of love, though I'm not ready to call it that, even in the privacy of my own mind.
I stand at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for dinner.
Woodrow is outside, checking the property perimeter—something he does religiously three times a day.
A routine has formed between us, as natural as if we've been together for years instead of days.
He makes coffee in the morning, strong and black.
I cook most meals, finding unexpected comfort in the domestic tasks.
We read together in the evenings, his large body taking up most of the couch, mine curled against his side.
And we talk. God, do we talk. Not at first—those first two days were all primal need and claiming, his body taking mine in every room of the cabin, on every surface. But then something shifted. He started asking questions. About my life, my thoughts, my dreams. And I started answering.
The door opens, bringing a rush of cool evening air and Woodrow's imposing presence. He stamps his boots on the mat, shrugging out of his jacket. His eyes find me immediately, as they always do, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Perimeter's clear," he says, crossing to me in three long strides. His arms wrap around me from behind, lips pressing against my neck, right over his mark. He always kisses me there first, like renewing his claim. "What are you making?"
"Stir fry," I answer, leaning back into his solid warmth. "It'll be ready in about twenty minutes."
"Perfect." His hands slide up, cupping my breasts through my (his) t-shirt, his touch possessive but gentle. "Just enough time to build up an appetite."
I laugh, swatting his hands away. "Down, boy. Let me finish cooking first."
He growls playfully against my neck but releases me, moving to set the table instead.
This easy domesticity should frighten me, should remind me that none of this is normal—I'm essentially a captive, hidden away in a remote cabin with a man who admitted to stalking me, who's promised violence against those who would harm me.
But it doesn't. It feels…right. Like coming home to a place I never knew existed.
After dinner, Woodrow builds a fire in the large stone fireplace. The nights have grown colder, autumn fully asserting itself. I curl up on the couch with a blanket while he works, admiring the play of muscles beneath his tight black t-shirt as he arranges logs and kindling.
"I never had a fireplace growing up," I say, the words coming unbidden. "My mom and I moved a lot after my dad left. Always apartments, always small. Never anywhere that felt permanent."
Woodrow glances over his shoulder, those intense eyes studying me. "That must have been hard. Always being the new kid."
I nod, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "I got used to being alone. Easier that way—not getting attached when you know you'll just have to leave again."
The fire catches, flames licking at the logs, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Woodrow comes to sit beside me, his weight making the couch dip, drawing me naturally into his side.
"Is that why you keep to yourself now?" he asks, one large hand settling on my thigh. "I've watched you. No close friends. No relationships. Always polite, but always distant."
"I guess old habits die hard." I stare into the flames, finding it easier to open up when not looking directly at him. "After Mom died three years ago, there wasn't really anyone left. No reason to let people get close."
His arm tightens around me. "Until now."
It's not quite a question, but I answer anyway. "Until now."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, his heartbeat steady under my ear where my head rests against his chest. I feel safe here. Protected. Wanted. Things I've never truly felt before.
"What did you want to be?" he asks suddenly. "Before life got in the way. What was the dream?"
I laugh softly. "Promise not to laugh?"
"I promise," he says, so serious it makes my heart skip.
"A writer," I admit. "I wanted to write stories—romance novels, actually. The kind with happy endings. The kind I never believed in."
Instead of laughing, he shifts, tilting my face up to his. "You'd be good at it. You have a way with words. And enough heart to fill a thousand pages."
The compliment catches me off guard, warmth flooding my cheeks. "You think so?"
"I know so." His thumb traces my bottom lip, a gesture that's become familiar but still sends shivers down my spine. "You're brilliant, Priscilla. Observant. Empathetic. Beautiful inside and out."
No one has ever spoken to me this way, seen me this way. As if I'm something precious, something valuable. Something worth keeping.
"Woodrow..." I whisper, not even sure what I want to say. Thank you? I'm falling for you? This is crazy but I never want it to end?
He doesn't let me finish, capturing my lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his tongue teasing mine, his hand sliding into my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.
I melt into him, as I always do, my body recognizing its master even as my mind marvels at the intensity of our connection.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, but there's something else there too. Something softer, almost vulnerable.
"You're so perfect," he murmurs, his hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me effortlessly to straddle his lap. "So fucking perfect for me."
I settle over him, feeling his hardness beneath me, my core already wet and aching for him. "I never believed in this," I confess, rolling my hips against his. "Never thought I'd feel this way about anyone."
"Feel what way?" he presses, his hands gripping my hips, guiding my movements against him.
I bite my lip, suddenly shy despite everything we've done together. "Like I'd die if you stopped touching me. Like nothing matters except being with you. Like…like I'm yours."
Something fierce and possessive flashes in his eyes. In one smooth motion, he lifts me, carrying me to the plush rug in front of the fireplace. He lays me down gently, the fire warming my skin as he strips off my clothes, then his own.
Naked, he's breathtaking—all hard muscle and battle scars, his cock thick and ready between his powerful thighs. I reach for him, needing him closer, needing him inside me.
He settles between my legs, his weight supported on his forearms as he looks down at me, our faces inches apart. "I want to see your eyes," he says, positioning himself at my entrance. "Want to watch you while I claim you."
I nod, spreading my thighs wider for him, my hands settling on his broad shoulders. He pushes inside slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. It's different this time—still intense, still claiming, but with a tenderness that makes my throat tight with emotion.
"So perfect," he groans, fully seated within me. "So tight around my cock. Like you were made for me."
"I was," I whisper, the truth of it settling in my bones. "Made for you. Only for you."
He begins to move, long, deep strokes that hit places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyes. But I don't close them. I keep watching him, seeing the pleasure and possession written on his face.
"Mine," he growls, increasing his pace. "Every inch of you, mine."
"Yours," I echo, my nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure builds within me. "All yours, Daddy."
The endearment slips out naturally now, no longer embarrassing or shameful. It's who he is to me—my protector, my lover, my everything.
"Going to fill you up," he promises, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "Going to pump you so full of my seed it takes root. Make you round with my baby."
The words send a thrill through me. I should be terrified at the thought—I'm only twenty-four, I barely know this man—but instead, I find myself nodding, urging him on.
"Yes," I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "Please, Woodrow. Fill me up."
His eyes darken at my consent, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he redoubles his efforts, driving into me with renewed purpose. One hand slides between us, finding my clit, circling it with practiced precision.
"Come for me, little girl," he commands, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "Come on Daddy's cock."
My orgasm hits with unexpected force, my back arching off the rug, a cry tearing from my throat.
My inner walls clamp down on him, pulsing, drawing him deeper.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, his hot release flooding my womb in powerful jets.
We stay joined, panting, our eyes still locked together. In the firelight, with his seed inside me, his weight a comforting pressure above me, I realize the truth I've been avoiding.
I'm falling in love with him.
This man who took me from my life, who claims to be protecting me, who fucks me with such possession it borders on worship—I'm falling for him. Hard and fast and completely.
Should I be worried about Stockholm Syndrome? About the unhealthy power dynamics? About the fact that my entire world has narrowed to this cabin, this man, this all-consuming need?
Probably.
But as he brushes the hair from my face with gentle fingers, as he presses tender kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, I can't bring myself to care. Whatever this is—obsession, possession, protection, love—it feels more real than anything I've ever known.
And I never want it to end.