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Could they regenerate severed limbs? What about decapitation? And suffocation? Could they drown? She had so many questions about life and death, questions she was certain he wouldn’t rush to answer.
And why, whenever she pictured harming him, did she suffer a twinge of guilt followed by a soothing caress in the deepest part of her mind? It was like he was there with her, experiencing her chaotic thoughts and weathering the emotional storm with her.
“I know you’re listening to me,” she said, like a crazy person trapped in an asylum. “I can feel you in my head.”
He’d been quietly hiding for hours, but the moment she sensed shame or guilt he chased it with empathy. She didn’t want his empathy. What kind of twisted fuck would comfort her for feeling guilty about fantasizing about killing him?
Another stroke along her frontal lobe. She combed a hand over her hair. “Get out of my head! Do you have any idea how off-putting that is?”
Of course he didn’t answer.
She’d had lovers in the past where everything revolved around sex and chemistry. This thing with Christian went beyond that. The inexplicable, intense way her body reacted to his, the way her mind catalogued him as familiar when he was still a stranger, the potent need to touch and mark him somehow, it overpowered common sense. When it came to him, she had pitiful willpower.
And what did that even mean, mark him?
Deep satisfaction that was not her own rolled through her. Some instinctual, animal part of her buzzed with awareness. Her head jerked as her ears and nose actively tried to track him, but he stayed carefully hidden. Silent, like a predator watching its prey and biding its time to attack.
Triggered by the game, she felt the urge to hunt him. She stood, her body taking an agile stance as she prepared to stalk him the way he stalked her.
Instinct directed her actions while she remained fully aware of just how psycho this strange behavior was. Perhaps a padded cell wasn’t such a bad idea after all, because as she breathed in the familiar aroma of the house, tracing his scent down to the floor below, she quietly started to purr.
A primal need to rub her body against his—not fuck him per se, actually rub, like a cat seeking attention and affection--drove her harder than any self-preservation ever could. She wanted him to wear her scent and needed to find him for that to happen.
Nearing the door, she considered how crazy she was acting and tried to regain control over her body. She pictured him with another woman, and the purr turned to a growl. Okay, that wasn’t the strategy to use. She quickly threw away the thought and squelched the visceral response the image triggered. He was hers as much as she was his. It didn’t matter that she fucking hated the bastard.
But did she hate him?
Staggering back from the door, she rushed to the far corner and cowered, gripping her head as she slid down the wall. “What’s happening to me?”
Another subtle stroke over her limbic system.
Her spine stiffened as her wild gaze searched the empty bedroom. “Stop. I don’t want your comfort!”
Time to toughen up. No more wallowing in self-pity. Fuck his rules and expectations. She didn’t need his help. She needed to get the hell out of there and speak to someone who could actually advise her, because she was one-hundred percent positive she was having some sort of mental breakdown.
Paralyzed by indecision, she whimpered from the corner. “Get up,” she told herself on an unsteady breath. “Get up and walk out the fucking door.”
To hell with her new feline instincts—she’d find someone less scary to rub against.
She could do this. She just had to get up.
But she couldn’t. Her panic was too heavy.
Another stroke through her mind and she screamed, raking her hands angrily over her head and messing her hair. “Get out of my head!”
Her breath hitched as a new sensation skipped through her. Fear. But not her own.
She recalled the glint of loneliness she detected whenever he became introspective. No! That was not her problem. Any sensitive side he hid could eat a dick.
She had a life and freedom before he came along. Only an idiot would feel bad for the man holding them captive, and she was no idiot. Fuck him and his fucking farm full of fanged Amish fuckers. She needed to escape while some shred of her true self still remained.
She saw his true colors when he chased out his mother. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard with little patience and extremely stringent expectations. In no universe of mythical anything would she put up with such a chauvinistic prick.
There was no room for hope with a man like that. People didn’t change. And even if he did hide some redeemable traits, a million apologies wouldn’t negate the fact that he abducted her and expected her to obey like a domesticated pet. She needed to remember who he was at the bone. And she couldn’t forget who she was. She would not let him wash her away.
