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When I can’t see him anymore, I wait a beat, then descend. Going down is more challenging, and I almost fall transitioning to the smaller tree. Only a lucky grab keeps me from plummeting to the forest floor. I slow down for the rest of the journey, but bolt the second my feet hit the ground. Each stride feels like it could be the one that gives me away as I head in the opposite direction of Shane.
A sharp bark of a laugh cuts through the woods. He must’ve reached the dead end. He’ll be retracing his steps now. I’m trying to move fast and silent, but my goals are at odds. A branch cracks beneath my sneaker, gunshot loud in the stillness.
Brush crashes somewhere behind me, but I don’t look back. Now that he’s heard me, speed is the only thing that matters. Branches whip my shoulders, urging me on. All I want is to look back. See how much of a lead I have.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from horror movies, it’s that you never look back at the monster chasing you. Even if the monster has great teeth and probably maxes out his 401k contributions. Even if you’re kind of looking forward to being caught and secretly hoping you’ll be eaten.
I push harder. Shane is closing in. He has to be. It’s not a matter of if he’ll catch me, but when. He can’t catch me yet. I don’t want to end up back at the house, so I veer left where the brush is thicker. There’s a deer trail, and I take it, hoping the well-traveled path lets me run faster. There’s less debris to trip on, less foliage to get tangled up in. Around me, the forest grows denser, so thick that the shadows cast by the trees feel menacing. My legs tire. Each breath is more ragged than the last.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, my shoulders hunching. I feel vulnerable and exposed, even though branches snag my shirt and pants as I move through the brush. My body tingles with expectation, waiting for the grab, the catch. The moment when the hunt becomes the fight. I don’t feel human anymore. I’m a vibrating swirl of dread. My brain won’t stop screaming.
Get the catch over with.
End the suspense.
Shane has to be gaining, but I can’t go any faster. I’m surprised every time I take a step without being snatched. I can’t help myself. I glance back. What I see shocks me, and I skid to a stop. He isn’t there. I’m alone. Just me, the trees, and a faint breeze toying with my hair. My bun’s come undone. The bobby pins lost to grasping branches. Maybe the trees are on his side, trying to strip me bare for him.
What the hell?
There’s no way I lost him. Scanning the woods, I’m a coiled spring, waiting for him to jump out and grab me. The only movement in the branches is a gentle sway caused by the breeze. Going back isn’t an option. He has to be following me, and I don’t want to run right to him. I press on down the deer trail.
I’m no longer running, but I’m hurrying. A low-hanging branch forces me to duck, the trail growing tighter around me. I’m worried it will vanish altogether, leaving me elbowing noisily through the brush. It opens up again after a few dozen feet, and more sunlight filters through the trees. Ahead, I see what looks like a clearing. I have no idea how far I am from the house, how far I am from Shane.
I creep into the clearing, pausing to shake leaves from my hair. There’s a large tree in almost the exact center. It’s massive, must be decades old, and the way there are no other trees around it only makes it look more impressive. I’m trying to figure out what kind it is when Shane steps from behind its trunk.
Shit.
Chapter Six
Claire
It’s a miracle I don’t piss myself in surprise when Shane steps from behind the tree. Still, the squeak I make is undignified. Spinning, I flee back down the trail.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Shane’s voice is close, too close. I barely have time to register what that means when he grabs one of my arms and jerks to a stop. I expect my momentum to break his hold, but it spins me roughly instead, my arm feeling stretched an inch longer. Before I can think, he tugs me to his chest, clamping my arms at my sides.
“A little deer taking the deer trail,” he says conversationally. “Fitting.”
I stomp on the top of his foot once and then again. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. He just starts walking backward into the clearing. I’m pinned to his chest, but I kick at him, trying to make him trip. When that doesn’t work, I collapse. He doesn’t expect that, but he recovers fast. I’m faster, diving off the trail, hoping that slows him. My freedom is short-lived. A rough hand tangles in the hair at the base of my skull. Damn the bobby pins. He pulls me thrashing from the brush. I expect him to readjust his hold, grab an arm or ankle. He doesn’t.
“Motherfucker,” I spit as he hauls me down the trail by my hair. I dig my nails into his wrist and forearm, trying to make him let go. It hurts, it hurts so fucking bad, but I’m too pissed to even think about using the safe word. I feel like I’ve lost way too quickly.
“Know your safe word?” Shane asks. We’re in the field now, and I’ve resorted to grabbing at his ankles.
“Yes” has barely left my lips when he releases me. I flop on my back. Fighting the urge to rub my scalp, I start to rise. He knocks my feet out from under me, dropping to his knees between my legs. Propped up on my elbows, I take in the sight of him. His hair’s mussed, hanging over his forehead. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his throat. My gaze roams over his body, zeroing in on the bulge behind his zipper. Shane lets out a raspy chuckle. Shit. I’m forgetting to play the game.
Scuttling backward in a crab crawl feels ridiculous, but it’s all I can do. He pounces. Solid hips settle between my legs. Brutal hands force my torso to the ground. Bucking, I try to knock him off. Shane pushes harder, grinding his erection on me. He’s rigid, pressing his body where mine wants him to be. My fingers itch to rip my leggings down, tug him out of his pants, and get down to it. I need him inside me, but I need to make it the full thirty days more.
Stay strong.
Sinking to his forearms, he dips his head to my throat. His breath tickles my skin. It’s minty, almost like toothpaste. The thought of Shane brushing his teeth before hunting me through the woods is endearing and, unfortunately, arousing. I should drop my chin and block his access to my throat. My body won’t listen. I’m rotating my head away from him, exposing my neck. Arching my back, I graze my breasts along his chest. I’m rewarded with his sharp intake of breath and a jolt of pleasure as his hips jerk between my legs.
His teeth scrape down the side of my throat before he plants an unexpected, scalding kiss there. Then he’s sucking, pulling the thin skin into his mouth with so much force I know there will be a bruise. Electricity sparks where his cock grinds on me, my legs wrapping around him instinctively. I’m squeezing, pulling his pelvis tighter to mine, writhing up, even as my brain screams at me to stop. He releases my neck with a popping sound. There’s a sting of pain where he ravaged my skin, but I forget when his deep voice fills my ears.
“Are you wet, little deer?” he rasps. “Dripping like you were last night?”
It hits me like lightning. He hasn’t said it. Not yet. Hasn’t told me to yield.
I freeze, mouth dry, throat tight. Wondering if I’ve blown it.
