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Opting for a shower and cozy pajamas, I climb the stairs to the top floor.
An hour later, I fall asleep.
I didn’t mean to drift off, but when I wake sometime later, I’m in bed beneath the blankets with a damp, partially unraveled turban clinging to my head.
Sitting up, I untangle the towel from my wet hair. I remember lying down without removing it. I remember dressing in these warm pajamas. But the blankets tucked tightly around me? I don’t remember that.
Six feet away, Kodiak lies in his own bed in the dark, facing me.
Are his eyes closed? What time is it?
I touch my pillow, soaked from my hair, and flip it over. I need to dry the rest completely before I lie back down. One thing I hate is sleeping with a wet head.
Slowly, silently, I slip from the bed and pad toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Kodiak’s gruff voice freezes me in place.
“Did you cover me with the blankets?”
“Answer my question first.”
“I’m going to dry my hair.”
“You were shivering, so I covered you.”
I feel a slight tug inside me, a twitch of affection, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him.
Sparse glimpses of kindness don’t mean he won’t hurt me. He certainly won’t put my safety before his or his brothers’.
Even so, I can’t ignore the horrors that shaped him. Like the strong likelihood that Denver murdered his mother. Or that Denver murdered all their mothers, possibly in front of them while they were young and terrified.
At the very least, they were raised by the man who abducted their mothers.
I’m not dealing with healthy individuals. The level of psychological trauma alone is beyond anything I know.
The chill of those thoughts chases me downstairs to the kitchen, where I sit beside the coal stove, letting its heat dry my hair.
In the quiet stillness of the cabin, the stove crackles and hums. But every few minutes, my ears perk at a muffled sound. A voice? A moan?
I hold my breath, listening, and for long moments, I decide I’m hearing things that aren’t there.
Until the voice comes again.
A woman’s voice.
Pulse spiking, I follow the sound toward Denver’s bedroom. Is he home? Did he bring someone with him?
Panic tangles in my chest as I enter the hallway.
Darkness shrouds Denver’s bedroom.
The sound comes again, and my attention narrows on the crack of light spilling from the library door.
A soft moan whispers out.
The hairs on my arms bristle as my feet float forward, bringing me closer, closer.
I reach the open sliver of the doorway, moving slow enough not to make a sound or stir shadows. Hovering an eye over the crack, I adjust my position until Leonid comes into view.
My hand flies to my mouth, silencing my gasp as I stare at the massive, undeniable silhouette of his erection spearing upward from his lap.
The sight of him exposed above the waistband of his pajama pants, all long and thick and bulging with veins, makes my knees wobble.
His hand rests around the base of it, fingers curled as if to stroke, but he doesn’t move. He sits so completely still with his eyes fixed across the room, it doesn’t look like he’s breathing.
I’m not breathing, either.
Another feminine moan slices through the silence, and I realize it’s a recording.
That’s what holds his attention. The TV screen on the far wall. He must be watching a movie with a sex scene.
Or a porno.
I haven’t come across any X-rated videos in the library, but that doesn’t mean they’re not hiding a stash somewhere.
No judgment here. Watching porn isn’t a crime, and I’ll gladly leave him to it.
Except something isn’t right.
His cock, jutting so hard and beautiful from his fist, hasn’t been soothed by a single stroke.
I’ve had enough boyfriends to know a man doesn’t watch porn without touching himself. He certainly doesn’t sit like a statue and grip the thing like he wants to break it off.
Shifting my feet soundlessly, I change my view of the room until the TV screen fills my vision.
At first, the images don’t make sense. I’m looking at a video of this room. The library. Except the shelves on-screen contain a fraction of the books and movies they display now. A large plaid couch sits where the current loveseat sits, now occupied by an unmoving Leonid.
I’m frozen, too, watching him watch two strangers fuck on a rug that no longer covers the wood flooring in this room.
Poor lighting and old video quality make it impossible to see their faces from here. The male appears rawboned, surprisingly thinner than the fit woman on top of him, who is riding him like it’s her last day on earth.
In this cabin.
In this room.
Ice fills my lungs. I shouldn’t be shocked. Six women have been brought here. Of course, there’s been sex in this house—consensual, violent, or otherwise.
