Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ashland
The drive back to the cabin is the longest forty minutes of my life.
She's here… in my car. She chose to come with me. And I can barely fucking breathe because I'm terrified she'll change her mind. Terrified I'll wake up, and this will all be a dream.
I can almost feel the phantom ache in my knuckles where I’d have split them on his face. It killed me not to attack him now, but I’m appeased for the moment, knowing his time will come. I'd break every bone in my hands if it meant keeping her safe.
I glance over at her. She's staring out the window, her arms wrapped around herself. Her dress is torn, and she’s trembling slightly. I want to pull over, wrap her in my jacket, and hold her until she stops shaking .
But I don't because I need to get her home first, need to get her somewhere safe where that bastard can't find her.
Home . Christ, when did I start thinking of the cabin as our home instead of just mine?
When we finally pull up, I kill the engine and just sit there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Ashland?” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “You’re quiet. Are you angry at me for leaving again?”
I sigh. “Angry? I can’t blame you for trying to escape. It was fucked up from day one, and I knew it. I just—I’m trying very hard not to carry you inside and lock every door and window,” I admit roughly. “Trying to remember you chose this. That you're not my prisoner anymore.”
“Then what am I?” she whispers.
I look at her. Really look at her. Dark hair mussed, red lips parted, eyes wide and trusting despite everything I've put her through.
“ Mine ,” I say. “If you'll have me. This has to be your choice. Keeping you under lock and key won’t work, Bianca. Not unless you choose this.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn't run. Doesn't flinch.
She opens the car door and walks toward the cabin.
I follow her inside, every instinct screaming at me to touch her, claim her, make sure she's real. But I force myself to keep some distance between us. I close the door. We don’t make eye contact, and my hands are shaking.
“Sit,” I tell her, gesturing to the couch. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “I'll get the first aid kit.”
She looks down at herself—the scrape on her palm, the tear in her dress, the bruising forming on her wrist. “I'm fine.”
“You're not fine.” I force myself to soften. “Let me see.”
She tries to pull away, but I catch her hand gently. Her palm is torn up, with bits of gravel still embedded in the skin.
“Sit,” I tell her, guiding her to the couch. “Please, lass.”
She sinks down, and I can see the adrenaline wearing off and the shock setting in. Her hands begin to shake.
I disappear into the bathroom and grab the first aid kit I keep stocked. When I return, she's staring at nothing, her arms wrapped around herself.
“Look at me, Bianca.” I kneel in front of her, eye level. “You're safe now. I've got you.”
Her dark-blue eyes focus on mine, and something in her expression cracks. “He was going to?—”
“But he didn't.” I take her injured hand carefully. “And he never will again.”
She watches as I clean the scrape, picking out the gravel, piece by piece. Each time she winces, I pause, waiting for her to nod before continuing.
“This'll sting,” I warn, uncapping the antiseptic.
“I can handle it,” she says shakily, but she doesn't pull away.
I dab at the wound as gently as I can. Her hand is so small in mine, delicate fingers that shouldn't know this kind of violence.
“Why did you let me go?” she asks quietly, not looking up. “When I escaped. You could have come after me. Dragged me back.”
It’s the question I've been dreading.
“Aye, I could've.” I press a butterfly bandage over the worst of it. “But it wouldn't have changed anything, would it? You needed to see for yourself. Needed to know I wasn't lying about him.”
“You had cameras in my room.” She finally meets my eyes. “You were watching me the whole time.”
“I was.”
“That's creepy, Ashland.”
“I know.”
She looks down at me then, and I don't flinch… don’t try to defend myself. This is who I am. What I am.
“You saved me. And then you just… what? Started stalking me? ”
“I made sure you were safe. Made sure no one else tried to hurt you.” I reach for her, my thumb stroking her cheekbone because I can't seem to stop touching her now that I've started.
“I told myself I was just checking in. Just making sure.
But then days became weeks, which became months, and I couldn't stop.
Every time I tried to walk away, I'd think about something happening to you, and I'd?—”
I break off. How do I explain this obsession? This need?
“I know it's wrong, Bianca. I know what I am. But I can't help it. You got under my skin that night, and you've never left.”
“Six years,” she repeats, and I can't read her expression. “You've been protecting me for six years, and I never even knew how close you were.”
“That was the point.”
“Why didn't you just… I don't know, talk to me? Ask me out like a normal person?”
I laugh, but it's bitter. “Look at me, lass. I'm not exactly the type of man you bring home to meet your mother. And you—” Christ, where do I even start? “You're light and goodness and everything pure in this fucking world. I had no right to you. Still don't. And I’m way too fucking old for you.”
She works her lip and swallows hard. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven. ”
A corner of her lips quirks up. “So you’re… thirteen years older than I am. Why is that so hot? Mmm. It’s very… daddy .”
Christ. My dick’s instantly hard, blood thrumming through my veins. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Tell me about it.”
I hold her hand like she’s a princess and I’m her prince, then kiss her bandaged fingers.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Then why did you take me?”
“Because I'm a selfish bastard who couldn't watch you walk into death. And because the thought of him touching you, hurting you, killing you—I would have burned the whole fucking world down before I let that happen.”
She's staring at me like she's seeing me for the first time. Maybe this is the first time she's really seeing the monster.
Then she leans forward and presses her lips to my forehead.
I go completely still… and stop breathing.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my skin. “For saving me. Both times.”
“Bianca—” My voice is wrecked.
“I'm not saying what you did was right. The stalking, the watching, the kidnapping—it's all kinds of fucked up.” She finally meets my eyes. “But you were right about Marcus. And if you hadn't taken me when you did… ”
She shudders, and I want to kill Crowning all over again. Slower this time.
My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head. She's so small, so delicate. I could break her so easily.
Instead, I hold her like she's made of glass.
“I'm sorry I scared you. Sorry I made you feel trapped. But I'm not sorry I took you. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”
“I know.” The way she says it—like she understands, like she's not judging me for it—nearly breaks me. “I'm not going anywhere, Ashland. Not tonight. Not—” She swallows. “Not for a while.”
A while. Not forever. But it's more than I deserve.
“How long is a while?”
“I don't know. I just—I need time to figure this out. Figure out what this is.” She gestures between us. “Because I'm feeling things I shouldn't be feeling for my kidnapper.”
Every cell in my body goes on high alert. “What kinds of things?”
Heat floods her cheeks—Christ, the way she blushes—and she looks away. “Don't make me say it.”
“Say it, lass.” I use that commanding tone I know affects her. “I want to hear it.”
“I—” She's trembling now. “When you hit Marcus tonight. When you stood over him and threatened him, I should have been scared. But I wasn't. I was?—”
“What?”
“Turned on,” she admits in a rush. “I was turned on watching you defend me. Protect me. And that's ridiculous, right? That's Stockholm syndrome or something.”
I kiss her.
I can’t help it… can’t stop myself. Years of wanting and waiting and dreaming, and she just admitted she wants me too.
My hand tightens in her hair, angling her head, and she opens for me with a gasp that goes straight to my cock.
This kiss is different—this is hunger.
My other hand grips her hip, pulling her closer, and she comes willingly. She practically climbs into my lap, and Christ, having her body against mine is better than any fantasy.
“Not Stockholm syndrome,” I growl against her lips between kisses. “You're attracted to a man who would kill for you. Who would die for you. Nothing wrong with that, lass.”
“Ashland—” She moans my name. I've imagined that sound a thousand times, but reality is so much better.
“I've wanted to do this for so fucking long,” I murmur, my hands sliding down her sides, memorizing every curve. “Touch you. Taste you. Make you mine.”
“I'm not—” She gasps when I bite down gently on her neck. “I need some time.”
I pull back immediately, searching her eyes. “I know. I won't push you, lass. We'll go at your pace.”
Even though it's killing me. Even though I'm so hard it hurts. Even though I want nothing more than to carry her to my bed and spend the next twelve hours learning every inch of her body.
Even though I can already taste her on my tongue, sweet and perfect and mine .
I imagine spreading her thighs wide, holding them open when she tries to close them because it's too much, too intense.
Watching her face as I taste her for the first time, seeing her eyes go dark and desperate.
The way she'd gasp and squirm, those delicate fingers digging into my scalp hard enough to hurt, while I devour her like a man starved.
Because I am . Six years of celibacy, six years of wanting only her, and she's right here, soft and willing in my arms.