CHAPTER THREE #3
I think the bottle drops from his hand and I feel him jerk.
But only slightly. I’m not satisfied with that so I bite him harder, wanting him to howl with pain.
But all there is, is silence and his taste in my mouth.
Spicy mixed in with metal. Blood? Did I draw blood?
Before I can figure out either way, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head.
His fingers fisted in my hair, he yanks my head back, making me moan in pain before descending.
He towers over me, filling my vision with his harsh face and glittering eyes.
Then, “The rope I used on you is made of hemp. It’s strong, good for tyin’ things up, but also easy on the skin; don’t leave a mark.
We use it on newborn calves on our ranch.
Since this was your first time, thought I should go gentle on you.
Tie you up with somethin’ that won’t hurt you or mar your creamy fuckin’ skin.
Don’t make me regret that. Don’t make me tie you up in jute and deliver you all bloody and bruised.
No one would care about any wounds on the Turner Princess, not where I’m takin’ you.
” His fist tightens in my hair as he goes on, “And don’t make me shove this bottle in your annoyin’ little mouth and pour this juice down your fuckin’ throat.
You haven’t had a sip of water for over seven hours now and you need to drink, yeah? ”
I’m shaking. There’s no other way to describe it. The tremors that are going through my body aren’t subtle shivers but actual shakes. They make my teeth chatter. They make me want to shrink away from him, from his mean face and brutal grip. Somehow, though, I manage to nod.
He breathes deep at my acquiescence.
Then he produces the bottle again. This time, it’s held in his bloody hand.
It’s only half full because I was right; it did fall on the ground just now, but there’s plenty left for me to drink.
He tips it toward my mouth, and I reluctantly do what he wants me to.
As soon as I take the first sip, my eyes skitter up to his.
It’s my favorite kind of juice. It’s what I drink every morning: a mix of mango and passion fruit.
It’s what I bring with myself to school, painstakingly poured into a thermos because I hate drinking anything else, even water.
I keep our eyes locked as I continue drinking, or rather, as he feeds me my favorite juice, my heart racing. My skin feeling all heated and tight.
I don’t know what to make of it. That he got me my favorite juice. Actually, I don’t know what to think about the fact that he thought about what kind of a rope would be gentle on my skin.
While I’m still reeling with these revelations, he thinks I’ve had enough and takes the bottle away. Then, “Now you’re gonna eat something too. Because you haven’t had dinner and you need somethin’ in your belly.”
With that decree, he comes up to his feet and I have to crane my neck again to look up at him.
He strides over to the other side of the fire and bends down to root around in his backpack and fish out a bottle of water.
He twists it open—with his good hand—before pouring half of it down on his other hand, the one I bit and tasted.
I lick my lips as I watch the blood wash away.
Then I watch him fish out something else, a cloth—a dark-colored bandanna—from the bag and wrap it around his injured hand.
Once he’s done, he bends down once again, but this time he goes for a plate loaded with food.
Something I hadn’t noticed before, just like the juice. And he strides back to me.
He crouches down in front of me like before and, stabbing the fork into some eggs, offers the food to me.
I stare at him for a second. Then I stare at the plate and everything on it: scrambled eggs, sausage links, a few pieces of bacon.
All usual breakfast items, but the eggs have peas and onions in them, and the bacon is extra crispy.
Just the way I like it. My heart pounds in my chest, pounds and pounds, and just like the juice and the rope thing, I don’t know what to make of the fact that he not only made me breakfast but took the time to cook it the way I like it.
Swallowing, I lean forward and open my mouth, and he feeds me the first bite, complete with peas and onions.
Unlike the juice, feeding me breakfast takes time.
It’s slow like molasses and infinitely more intimate.
I don’t know where to look so I keep looking into his eyes.
And he knows exactly what parts of me to stare at so he alternates between my mouth closing around the fork, my throat when I swallow, and then back up to my eyes.
No one has ever looked at me like that. But then again, I’ve had only one stalker in my life, and it’s the man feeding me breakfast. I wonder if this is how he looked at me all those months.
With eyes so green and intense that the world seemed black-and-white.
By the time we finish, I’m more heated than I’ve ever been. While eating—and drinking too—was a good idea, my body’s still trembling and I feel shaky. Still, I manage to say, “Your…”
He’s in the process of forking up the last of the eggs when I speak, and he looks up.
I glance down at his injured hand. “Your hand.”
Still holding the loaded fork, he follows my gaze.
“It’s, uh, still bleeding,” I say, like he doesn’t know and can’t see. But it needed to be said, or at least something needed to be said because the bandanna is half soaked with his blood. Blood that I drew.
He comes back to me and wordlessly lifts the fork, ready to feed me.
Instead of leaning forward and accepting it, I say, “You should probably take care of it.”
He remains silent and I swallow. Then I take his offering and slowly chew and swallow again.
When I’m finished, I say, “I’ve never…” He lifts his eyes up to me as he climbs to his feet, and I have to clear my throat.
“I’ve never really bandaged anyone before.
But if you… have a first aid kit or something, I can give it a try. ”
He watches me a beat or two before he rumbles, “Would rather bleed to death than trust the hellcat who bit me in the first place with a pair of scissors and alcohol pads.”
With that he spins around and goes back to his side of the fire. Frowning, I call out, “I’m not a…” I remember something then. Something else he called me a few minutes ago. “Wait, did you say the Turner Princess?”
He’s been busy packing things up, but now he straightens and comes to a halt with his back to me.
With my heart in my throat, I continue, “Is this… is this about my father?”
His back is to me so I don’t know what his face looks like, but I bet his features have changed. Maybe tightened a bit because I notice his hands fisting at his sides.
My belly starts churning then as I say, “It is, isn’t it? This is about my father.”
Now, along with his fists, I notice his back tensing too. And I get my confirmation. Of course it’s about my father. Of course. Everything wrong in my life is because of him. So why not this too.
“He probably… he probably did something to you. Didn’t he?
He”—I swallow thickly—“took something from you. Maybe your land, yeah? You mentioned a ranch, didn’t you?
So maybe he took that from you. And now you want what, revenge?
Is this about revenge? Or maybe money. You want compensation for what he did to you.
And that’s why you kidnapped me? Because you think whatever it is you want, taking me from him will make him give that to you. ”
Even though he can’t see me, I’m shaking my head.
“It’s never going to happen. It’s never going to work.
Do you understand? My father is never going to give you any money.
You can’t touch my father. He’s untouchable.
People have tried, trust me. People have tried to kill him.
People have tried to exact revenge. They all die in the end.
Do you understand? They all end up dead.
My father kills people. He’s going to kill you. ”
He still doesn’t turn around.
And my urgency grows. “Are you listening to me? Whatever it is you’re thinking, you need to give it up. For your own sake. Sooner or later, my father’s going to find out I’m missing. My brother is going to find out too. They’re both really bad men, and they’re—”
I stop talking when I watch him take a deep breath, his massive back rising and falling, before he lowers his head to stare at the ground for a few seconds.
As if in defeat. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t get the time to figure it out because he spins around to face me.
I barely have time to study his features—which appear blank and unbothered—before he comes back to me and drops down to his haunches again.
I try to speak but can’t. Because he brings something out of his pocket—a cloth similar to the one he has wrapped around his hand—and as he shakes it out, I realize it’s his skeleton mask.
Only it’s not a mask, it’s actually a bandanna, and he uses it to gag me and shut me up.