Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Bianca
I pride myself on staying calm in intense situations, but… I don't know if I can, not here, not now. I'm doing my best, but I feel frantic and flailing, like I need to break something or run.
But… how?
I take a deep breath and remind myself that staying calm is the only way I can stay safe. The only way I can escape.
Okay, alright.
So first off, I need to figure out where the hell I am and who the hell I'm with.
Ashland. I've never heard the name before.
He gestures to my wrists, still bound. “Let me. ”
Hope rises in my chest. He's going to allow me this freedom. I flinch instinctively when he reaches for me, but there's nowhere to go. He steps closer, and his big, rough, tattooed fingers work the ties around my wrists with surprising gentleness.
When they fall away, I gasp at the rush of blood back into my hands.
Before I can pull away, he catches my wrists, just firm enough to keep me still, his grip possessive in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.
His rough, warm thumbs press into my palms, massaging circulation back into my fingers with slow, deliberate circles.
It feels too good. Too intimate.
“There now,” he murmurs, quieter in this small space, and I can feel his breath against my hair.
He towers above me, his shoulders dwarfing mine, and the way he's bent over me, focused entirely on my wrists, feels almost like he's shielding me.
Protecting me. “That's better, isn't it? Aye, that's a good lass.”
The praise does something to me I don't want to think about right now.
He frowns at the red marks on my wrists, his jaw tightening, and his thumbs continue their maddening circles. “Didn't mean to hurt you. Tried to secure you without leaving marks, but it seems I didn't do a very good job.”
“It's fine,” I say on instinct, and my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
Why am I trying to make him feel better about this situation?
It’s what I always do, isn’t it?
I yank my hands back the second he loosens his grip and cradle them against my chest. They're tingling, all pins and needles shooting up my arms, but that's not why I pulled away.
I don't like how his touch was almost… reverent.
How his rough hands on my skin made heat pool low in my belly.
How I felt, for just a moment, like I could trust him? like I wanted to… lean into him.
I have to remember I'm a prisoner. I have to remember that he took me.
He watches me for a long moment, his gray eyes darkening, and I wonder if he can tell what his touch did to me. If he knows.
I take a look around me. This isn't exactly a dank basement with a concrete floor. No, this is actually kind of… nice.
The cabin smells like pine and wood smoke.
The space is open-plan—a kitchen along one wall, all simple wood cabinets and butcher-block counters, and this sitting area with a massive stone fireplace crackling with low flames.
There's a dining table between the two spaces, solid and scarred with age.
The furniture is sparse but nice. The leather sofa I'm sitting on is worn soft with use, with wool blankets in deep greens and grays draped over the back.
Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with books that look well-read .
I can like any place lined with books…
No. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right.
I’m looking for the layout, not making myself at home.
The stone walls are rough-hewn, the kind that have been here for ages, and exposed beams cross the ceiling overhead.
It's surprisingly cozy for a… prison.
Through the kitchen, I can see a back door and a hallway leading to what must be bedrooms. The windows are small, deep-set in the thick stone walls, showing nothing but darkness and the occasional glimpse of trees pressing close.
There's no television that I can see. No hum of electronics. Just the fire, the books, and the wilderness surrounding us.
Under normal circumstances, it would thrill me. It's a place out of one of my dreamlands, where I would curl up by the fire with my book and a hot cup of tea and read for hours on end.
Only, this is no fairy tale.
My hands won't stop shaking. I've tucked them under my thighs on this soft leather sofa, but it doesn't help. The tremors work their way up my arms, into my shoulders, until my whole body feels like it's vibrating at a frequency only I can hear .
And I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to be calm and in charge, but how can I?
He drugged me. I'm kidnapped. What is he going to do with me? Part of me hopes that if he were going to assault me, he already would have.
But it doesn't seem like that's his plan. I don't know how to describe how he looks at me, but it's… believable that he won't hurt me.
I look out the windows again. It's definitely not the time to escape unless I like wandering around the woods for hours on end with no hope in sight.
No, I'll have to at least wait until daylight to see if I can get any idea of where I am. If I can get away. If I can get my phone…
I hear a door opening and closing, followed by the sound of running water in the loo. Civilized sounds, normal sounds, sounds that don't belong to a man who just drugged me, kidnapped me, and drove me to the middle of nowhere.
Marcus is going to lose his damn mind.
As soon as I have that thought, I wonder… would he? Will he, really?
The thought crashes through me like a wave, and I have to press my palms against my mouth to keep from making a sound. My father would have torn Dublin apart looking for me. And my mother …
My eyes burn, but I won't cry. I won't . I am not the type to fall apart.
I'm a good girl who keeps it together, who follows the rules, who does what she's told.
But dammit, I've been doing what I'm told my whole life, and look where it's gotten me.
I swallow hard when I hear footsteps. I straighten, pull my hands from under my legs, even though they're still shaking, and when he rounds the corner, I make myself look at him.
He's massive. I clocked that straight away when he grabbed me, but here in the dim lamplight of this small room, he seems even larger.
His shaved head gleams in the firelight, and his silver-gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
The scar through his eyebrow is more visible now, a pale line that pulls slightly when his expression shifts, giving him a dangerous edge that shouldn't be attractive but somehow… is.
His shoulders are so broad they fill the doorway, blocking any chance of escape.
The black T-shirt he's wearing does nothing to hide the muscle underneath—the kind that comes from hurting people, not from posing in mirrors.
Both arms are covered in tattoos, dark Celtic knots that wind down to knuckles that are split and scarred.
When he shifts his weight, every movement is controlled. Precise. Like he's done this before .
He's holding a steaming mug that looks almost comically small in his enormous hands.
“Cup of tea, lass? My mother always says it helps to calm nerves, and you look like you need calming.” He shrugs, and the movement makes his shoulders flex in a way that has no business being distracting. “Figured you might want some.”
His voice is rough, gravelly, like maybe he doesn't speak that much.
I stare at the steaming mug. Alright, so if he were going to assault me, would he be making me a cup of tea?
I narrow my eyes at the cup because I can see the name of my favorite tea on the little tag hanging over the edge.
I stare, like it might explode, as he sets it on the table in front of me. Those tattooed fingers release the cup carefully, and I notice the fresh scabs across his knuckles, split and raw. The gesture is almost considerate.
For a second, I can't even process it. I want the damn tea, but what if he's only trying to sweet-talk me and he drugged it? It would be foolish to take anything from him, wouldn't it?
He sighs, and the sound rumbles through his broad chest. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca.” Hearing him call me by name makes my stomach flip.
He talks to me as if we're friends, as if he's familiar with me.
I glare at him. I'm generally a happy person, and scowling doesn't come naturally to me. “You didn't tell me how you know my name.”
Something flickers across his face, not quite guilt, but something darker, more complicated. In this light, his features are all hard angles and sharp edges, brutal and beautiful in equal measure.
“Drink your tea, lass, then we'll talk.”
I shake my head. “I don't want it.” My voice comes out stronger than I expected, and I'm proud to say that I don't sound petulant but insistent. “I want to know why you took me, and I want to know who the fuck you are.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, like he's surprised. “Watch your language, lass. You're too pretty a girl to use words like that.”
The irony hits me so hard I almost laugh.
“Watch my…? You kidnapped me.”
“Aye.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and when he does, the muscles around his shoulders bunch, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest. He's not just big, he's powerful, all corded muscle and coiled strength, with eyes that tell me he's not afraid to use it.
“I did take you.” No denial, no justification. Just matter-of-fact, like he's confirming he picked up milk at the shops. “We covered why.”
“You can't just…” I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving.
He's moving too, not toward me, but sideways, blocking my path with that massive frame, like he doesn't want to hurt me but won't let me leave either.
It's subtle and practiced, the movement of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is.
“Let me go. Marcus will?—”