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I want to survive.
18
Frankie
—
I need to focus. Maybe if Leonid wore a shirt, I wouldn’t be clouded by a sudden desire for human contact.
It’s his scar. The long, angry welt across his stomach makes him seem slightly vulnerable now that I know who put it there.
How could a mother stab her own child? Maybe she lost her mind. It’s easy to imagine myself falling into madness if I stay here much longer.
How did she die? Did he kill her? How old was he?
The scar isn’t new. By the looks of it, it’s grown and stretched with his body, becoming part of him, like the freckles spattering his shoulders and the twin dimples at the base of his spine.
I wish he’d pull up those damn pants. If they slip any lower, I’ll find out how dedicated he is to glute exercises.
He stops at a door off the main sitting room, one I assume leads to a garage.
Why do they need a garage? They have a workshop and no cars.
Stepping inside, he leads me into a cold, windowless room. I strain my eyes until he turns on the lights.
Not a garage.
The walls bristle with crossbows, axes, knives, rifles, handguns, and boxes upon boxes of ammunition.
Holy shit.
“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He scowls at the racks of weapons.
“I can learn.”
“Not today.” He reaches for a heavy-looking knife.
“If a wolf charges me, what am I going to do with that?”
With a scoff, he mutters something about spaghetti arms.
“What did you say?” My biceps contract defensively.
“You have weak, scrawny arms. Lifting martinis and designer sunglasses doesn’t count as exercise.”
“I don’t drink martinis or wear sunglasses.” My voice rises louder than I intend. “My arms are in proportion with my body.”
“Exactly. Weak all over.” He shifts to another wall and selects a revolver instead. “Point and squeeze the trigger. Think you can handle that?”
“If he’s mean, I’ll figure out how to shoot.” I glare at my first target.
“Yeah. You’ll shoot something. Probably yourself.” He spins the barrel, checking for rounds. “Works for me.”
“Hate to disappoint you, but I have no intention of dying.”
“Everyone dies.” He fits the loaded gun into a leather holster and lowers to his haunches before me.
My next breath is full of blades. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He grips my thigh. “Lift your shirt.”
“I can strap it on myself.” I shuffle back.
He frowns, and a glint of impatience glows from beneath dark brows. His jaw flexes, and his eyes lose all semblance of domestication, reverting to a wild state that makes him appear more beast than human.
A chill runs from my skull to my toes, and I try not to cower. I hope he doesn’t notice my hands trembling.
I’m terrified of the violence inside him. He doesn’t seem to have control of it.
My legs tense to run, my instincts urging me to put miles between us. The room wasn’t locked. I can come back later and take what I want.
Or I can stop being a chickenshit and let him secure the thigh holster.
Don’t show fear.
Dragging in a breath, I raise my chin and close the gap until his face is right there, mere inches from my torso.
It’s his turn to drag in a breath.
He’s not unaffected by me. I have half a mind to point that out, but my thoughts scatter the instant his hand molds around my thigh. A massive, strong hand. It spans all the way around, his fingers nearly touching his thumb.
I don’t have to look at his face to know what he’s thinking.
Scrawny.
Weak.
It only takes a second to realize the holster’s too big. Even with the straps wrapped around twice, they won’t buckle.
“Figures.” With a cruel huff of laughter, he removes the revolver and tosses the holster aside. Then he lowers his head, staring at the floor between my sneakers as if he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“Just because I’m small, doesn’t mean I’m powerless.”
“That’s exactly what it means.” He looks up, his dual-colored eyes accosting mine. Features exquisitely handsome. Lips vicious. “It’s why he took you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wager you’re the smallest woman he’s come across.” Rising to his feet, he crosses the room and rummages through the crates near the far wall. “He saw your size—childlike and just as helpless—”
“I’m not helpless.”
“—and knew you’d be easy to overpower.”
“If that’s true, he underestimated me.”
“He underestimated you when he carried you out of your mansion?” The muscles in his back ripple over large bones as he moves to the next crate, searching through miscellaneous accessories. “Did he underestimate you when he transported you by sea and air over multiple days? If you’re so badass, why didn’t you escape? He’s only human. He would’ve made mistakes.”
“He’s not human. None of you are.”
“You have no idea.” He prowls back to me, holding a holster fitted with tiny buckles.
