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He deflects my kick with a hip made of stone, and I sag in surrender. For now. “I must look pretty weak, since I’m totally biffing it here.”
“Not weak,” he grunts, grabbing at his chest and making a pained sound. Am I crazy or does me going limp seem to cause him discomfort? Shifting on his gigantic feet, he clears his throat and looks off in the distance. “Pretty. You are very…pretty.”
It’s only now that I realize we’ve been having a conversation. And this real, live nightmare has just called me pretty. “Are you trying to lull me into a false sense of security before you skin me alive or what?” I think back to the stories I’ve been listening to for three days. “That seems even crueler than using my bones as toothpicks.”
Shame passes over his damaged features so fast, I’m sure I missed it. “You were sleeping. I—” He catches himself, that scarred upper lip pulling into a scowl. “Drop the knife. It can’t save you.”
“Can’t save me from what?”
Leaning toward me, he bares his teeth. “The Butcher, of course.”
Once again, fear snakes in through my ribs, making me cold. “I thought it might be you.”
He glances down at himself, distaste evident in his partially visible features. “Who else could I possibly be?” His mountain-like shoulders roll back in a shrug. “Unless the Butcher has a brother.”
My mouth drops open. But I don’t get the chance to acknowledge the possibility that I share a sense of humor with the giant. He uses my stupor as an opportunity to knock the knife out of my hand, and I’m carried in his arms toward the door. “They’ll track me here,” I grit out, struggling to get free. “You’ll get caught.”
“They haven’t found me yet.”
“I’ll escape. I’ll lead them back here.”
“No.”
“No to which part?”
He kicks the door open. “Both.”
I hang on to the doorframe as we pass through, but it’s useless. He’s got the strength of forty regular-sized men. A puny vegetarian who has been existing on Cup O’ Noodles half her life doesn’t stand a chance. The sudden inundation of helplessness makes me angry. So angry. Too many times in my life I’ve been made to feel trapped this way and I thought I’d outrun it. Dammit. In a flash of despair and rage, I lash out and catch him across the face with a backhand.
Time slows down along with his footsteps, until we’ve come to a stop. I should be screaming for mercy about now, but my pride won’t let me. He’s going to kill me whether I apologize or not. Giant, raspy-voiced men who star in horror stories don’t bring women to cabins in the middle of nowhere unless murder is on the menu. “Why me? Why did you choose me?” I let my head tip back and rest on his stupid, watermelon-sized bicep. “What is it about me that…”
He has been staring straight forward since I slapped him, and that doesn’t change now. “That what?”
“What is it about me that makes people want to take away my…will? My choices? I don’t get it. I keep to myself. If I concentrate hard, I can be nice to people. Even the idiots. Why me?” I swipe a hand across my nose and revel in my pity party. Haven’t I earned the right? “This sucks.”
A tingling sensation along my cheek tells me he’s watching me. “Who takes away your will?”
“Besides you?”
He bows his head. “Yes.”
If I’m going to my death tonight, it won’t hurt to set my demons free. I’ve never spoken to anyone about my mother and the torture I’ve suffered at her hands. In an unexpected turn of events, I’m confiding in my kidnapper, but now isn’t the time to be choosy. “My mom took back custody from my foster parents when I was fifteen. She fought them so hard that I thought…I thought she really wanted me this time. She promised she wasn’t doing hard drugs anymore. Or drinking.” I swallow a handful of broken glass. “But she only wanted me to work. To support her and the habit. And when that wasn’t enough, she sold me to the highest bidder.”
His arms are shaking underneath me, nostrils flaring, the veins in his neck turning thick and bulging. “What does that mean?”
“I…what’s your real name? I should know your name if I’m going to tell you such a personal story.”
“Carver.”
“You’re kidding, right? The Butcher’s real name is Carver?”
His sigh is like a gust of wind, blowing some of the black hair off his forehead. For the first time, I get a full—but brief—glimpse of his face, and my heart turns heavy, beating like it has been dropped into a jar of honey. Dirt patches decorate his face, along with heavy bristle. But his eyes…they’re extraordinary. A kind of green that doesn’t exist in the forest. They’re so full of soul and sadness, I know for certain that despite his colossal size, he’s most definitely a man. One with feelings. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he’s not a murderer. “It’s not a coincidence. The previous owner of your camp sold me this cabin. We met once to transfer the deed.” His eyes roam over me with something close to yearning. “He started calling me the Butcher as a joke.”
