3. Mara
Mara
Warden sets the key on the kitchen counter while he fills a pot with water.
I catch it because I’ve already checked the bedroom window, the bathroom latch, and the second door beside the wood stove. The window opens six inches before a steel stop catches. The second door leads to a mudroom with another locked door beyond it.
He hasn’t searched my tote. He hasn’t taken the evidence. He has only taken me.
Only.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“No.”
“You’ll eat anyway.”
He turns toward the refrigerator. I move before caution catches up.
My fingers close around the keys.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Warden turns me and presses my back to the front door. He doesn’t twist my arm. He doesn’t need to. His body blocks every direction, hard and hot against me.
“Give them back.”
“Let me go.”
“Not the same thing.”
“You want me grateful.”
“No.” His gray eyes drop to my mouth. “I want you furious, honest, and alive.”
“You want more than that.”
His hips settle against mine. The thick ridge beneath his jeans makes the truth blunt.
“Yes.”
He keeps his grip loose enough for me to drop the keys and pull away.
“This isn’t payment,” he says. “I don’t touch you unless you choose it.”
I release the keys. They hit the floor between us.
Then I catch the front of his shirt and kiss him.
Warden goes still for one beat. Then his free hand locks around the back of my neck.
He takes my mouth open. No careful testing. His tongue pushes inside, and his weight pins me to the door. I taste coffee and cold rain. My thighs clench around the ache that’s been building since he stepped between Grant and me.
He pulls back far enough to look at me. “Say it.”
“I kissed you.”
His hand tightens in my hair. “Use words.”
I should hate the order. Instead, heat spills low through me.
“I want you.”
“Not gratitude?”
“No.”
“Not because I locked the door?”
“Because I’ve been staring at your hands for an hour.” I drag my nails over his chest. “Because I want to know what they feel like.”
His eyes sharpen. “You’re going to.”
He strips off my wet coat and sweater, then pulls my shirt over my head. His gaze moves over my bra and bare stomach without hurry. It should make me feel exposed. It makes me lift my chin.
“Hands up.”
I put them against the wood above my head.
He holds both wrists in one hand and opens my jeans with the other. His fingers slide beneath my underwear. The first rough stroke makes my knees weaken.
“Wet,” he says against my ear. “You can argue with me. Don’t lie to yourself.”
“I’m not.”
His fingers push inside me. I bite back a sound.
“Let me hear it.”
He drives his thumb over my clit and curls his fingers. The sound comes out broken. He does it again, watching my face while he holds me still.
Pressure builds too fast. I roll my hips into his hand.
“That’s it.” His praise is low and rough. “Take what you asked for.”
I come against his fingers with my wrists pinned above me and his mouth at my throat.
Before I can catch my breath, he releases my hands and turns me toward the door. His palm covers the back of my neck.
“Tell me if it hurts wrong.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
His hand lands across my ass.
The sharp sting pulls a gasp from me. Heat follows it.
“Again,” I say.
He gives me three, each harder than the last, then rubs the burn with his broad palm. I push back toward him, asking for more without words.
His zipper opens. He presses the thick head of his cock against me, pauses, and waits.
I turn my face enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t stop.”
Warden drives inside.
The stretch is hard and full. I brace my hands against the door as he gives me time to take him. Then his grip settles on my hips and he fucks me with the same control he used on Grant’s wrist. Every thrust lands where I need it. Every rough command makes my body tighten around him.
“Mine,” he says.
I should fight that word.
I push back and take him deeper.
His hand slides beneath me. Two strokes over my clit break the last of my control. I come again, harder, my forehead against the wood and his name torn from my throat.
Warden locks one arm around my waist and follows me over. His face presses into my hair. His body shakes once, then goes solid behind me.
For several seconds, the cabin holds nothing but our breathing and rain against the windows.
He withdraws carefully. Before I can reach for my clothes, he turns me and lifts me onto the kitchen counter.
“Stay.”
This order carries no threat. I obey it anyway.
Warden warms a cloth beneath the tap. He cleans between my thighs with slow, precise strokes, then checks the red handprints across my skin.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Sore?”
“A little.”
He opens the refrigerator, hands me cold water, and waits until I drink half the bottle. Then he wraps a thick blanket around my shoulders and sets a plate of bread and sliced meat beside me.
“Eat.”
“You’re still ordering me around.”
“Yes.”
I take a piece of bread. His thumb passes once over the inside of my wrist where he held me. There’s no bruise. He checks anyway.
“Would you still feed me if I hadn’t kissed you?” I ask.
His expression hardens. “Yes.”
“Would you still protect the evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Would you unlock the gate?”
“No.”
The answers come at the same speed. He doesn’t dress the last one up for me.
“You see why that’s a problem.”
“I see why you hate it.” He fills my bottle and puts it back in my hand. “I can live with you hating me. I won’t live with Rusk getting you.”
I pull the blanket tighter. “You decide everything.”
“Tonight, I decide the perimeter.” His gaze settles on mine. “You decide whether I touch you.”
He waits until I finish eating, then carries the plate to the sink. No request to clean his kitchen. No test to prove I deserve the space. He returns with my dry sweater and kneels to help me step into my jeans because my legs are still unsteady.
The sight of him on one knee hits harder than it should. He isn’t submitting. He’s checking that I can stand.
“Bed’s yours,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”
I look at the dark bedroom, then the camera monitor above the counter. Grant is somewhere outside the locked gate. Warden fills the cabin with his size and attention.
“Stay where I can see you.”
His eyes hold mine. “Your choice?”
“Yes.”
* * *
He follows me to the bedroom.
Grant used to turn tenderness on after he hurt me, as if the second act erased the first. Warden watches the cost while he takes. He doesn’t ask me to pretend it costs nothing.
That difference should not be enough.
Tonight, with the door locked and my evidence untouched beside it, it feels enormous.
Warden stands between my knees until my breathing settles. Then he picks up the keys from the floor.
I look at them.
Desire is no longer the dangerous part.
The dangerous part is how safe I felt with his hand holding me down.