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I let out a scream that’s more shock than anger. Jameson dragged me to the car before without zero effort, but this time I fight him with everything I’ve got. Kicking. Scratching. Thrashing.
He doesn’t react.
Jameson walks me back toward the SUV. The back door is still open, and he steers me toward it. I’m not getting back in that SUV. I’mnot. He traps me between his body and the seat and leans past me for something. For what? I don’t care. I take a huge breath to scream the forest down, the cabin, everything.
The sound goes into cloth, slipped between my teeth. Jameson blocks me in while he snugs the—what the hell is it? Atie? Around the back of my head. The very moment his hands lift away, I push off him and make another break for it.
That fails, too. He catches me with both arms, standing over me, my body held in place by muscular thighs. Jameson captures both my wrists in one hand and ties them with a length of rope.
Then I’m airborne, tossed over his shoulder like a stubborn duffel bag, then reaches in for my things.
He carries me like this, protesting through the tie, kicking my feet, around to the passenger side.
Where he.
Retrieves.
Thebirdcage.
He has a woman tied up over his shoulder, and he’s gettingthe bird out to take with him.
Jameson is way more careful with the bird than he is with me.
Oh, God.
I’m never getting out of this.
There’s no way this becomes a prank, or a game, or a date. There’s no way this leads to anything but torture.
He takes me inside the cabin. Lights rise slowly as we enter, one of them centered over the sink. I see the mudroom and the kitchen from my position over his shoulder, looking down like I’m that winged creature, pulled out of the air by a demon. A teacup hangs on a hook over the sink. It’s white? Gold? A ring of blue on the inside lip. He turns, swinging my head the opposite direction.
Jameson gently places the birdcage on the countertop. It doesn’t seem to cost himanythingto carry me around like this.
That’s not hot. That’s horrifying. I’m horrified by how strong he is. He’s not one of those guys with enormous muscles, from what I can feel under my belly, andstill. I don’t find it attractive at all. Nothing about him will ever be attractive. The warm, subtly spicy scent of him isn’t good, it’s evil. His too-long hair isn’tnice.It’s all bad.
“I’ll get you your stuff in a minute.”
The bird sings back at him.
Jameson walks me through to the main room, which has a leather couch and a round rug and an armchair. He lets my bag slide off his shoulder andthumpto the ground, then deposits me in the center of the rug.
He’s close.
He’s very close, and this is the first time I’m getting a clear view of his face.
The man isexhausted.He looks like the world pushed him past his limit a long time ago and never stopped.
Jameson’s eyes are a vivid, uninterrupted green. Not like mine, which have a sunburst around the center that makes them hazel in the right light. A furrow in his brow appears.
It takes a second to understand why he’s frowning.
I’m trembling, more and more as the seconds pass.
He scoffs, and that vivid green flickers up toward the ceiling like he might roll his eyes at me. “Relax. If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t do it this slowly. I’d do it fast. That’s more than some people get.”
“What are you going to do to me?” It’s the most pointless question I’ve ever asked, all garbled up in the gag.
“First, this.” Jameson reaches out, takes the collar of my bodysuit in his hands, and rips it down the middle. His eyes follow the torn fabric toward where it’s stuck in my slacks. He gives it an experimental tug, and when it doesn’t come free, he laughs.
