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My hand twitches to slap that smirk off his face, but I won’t. I want that drink too badly. I need it.
Before I finish the thought, I’m pulling it from his grip. “Are the cameras still there?”
If he can watch Monty, I would sell my soul for a glimpse.
“No. I removed them the night I removed you.” His wicked lips soften into a kind smile. “Get some rest. You’ll be much more fearsome once those ribs are healed.”
He returns to the chair, and I scoot toward the window, giving him my back as I savor the sweet caramelly flavor of bourbon and cherries.
What time is it? What month? The midnight sun is seriously fucking with my internal clock.
Beyond the triangular glass wall, the sun appears to move from left to right. But with each passing night, it lingers longer and closer to the horizon. It must be setting for a few hours every night while I sleep.
It hasn’t snowed since I arrived, but the air looks colder, and the nights are starting to darken.
Winter’s coming, and I’m terrified of what it will bring.
As the days drag by, Denver continues to come and go but rarely leaves me alone. I don’t complain when he brings bourbon, but when he’s not here, Wolfson takes his place.
After so many useless, frustrating conversations, I’ve learned to ignore them and spend the long hours in my head.
By the end of the third week in Kodiak’s room, I can’t stare at these walls another second.
Quick movements still knock the air out of me. I’m in no shape to run a marathon. But I can finally breathe without sharp pain in my ribs. I no longer need bed rest.
I need action.
Change the want. Focus on a different desire. An obtainable goal.
When I decided to leave Monty, I told myself it wasn’t the end of the road. I can break. I can be sad. That’s okay. I’ll find my way again.
Doesn’t matter that I’m alone. I lost my baby, but I still have me. I still have a life worth fighting for.
There’s a plane sitting outside. That one thing stands between me and freedom. I only need to learn how to fly it.
How hard can it be? There must be something in this house that can help. Books? Videos? Manuals? Access to the internet?
Maybe if I learn about this place, its location, the men who live here, and their weaknesses, I can do what no captive has done before me.
I have a goal.
Escape.
Return to Sitka.
Forgive Monty.
The door opens, and Wolfson ambles in, carrying a glass of bourbon. “We prefer vodka around here, but I hear this is your drink of choice.”
“Thank you.” As I accept the glass, my eyes widen on his forehead.
Is that…?
Jesus.
Literally.
Drawn in black ink, a crown of thorns adorns his brow. The shading and detail of twisted vines, needles piercing skin, beads of blood, and textured bark—the artwork looks so lifelike it boggles the mind. I could never create something so beautiful. But…why that?
My gaze travels down his arms to his hands, and sure enough, he bears the stigmata, the wounds drawn in three-dimensional wonder, made to appear as if his flesh is truly punctured by nails. I can’t believe he accomplished it with a sharpie.
“Why?” I meet his glowing blue eyes.
“From now on let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus.”
“Are you quoting the Bible?”
“Galatians.”
“I didn’t realize you were religious.”
“Nah. Just trying to impress the ladies at church.”
“Yeah?” I gulp down the bourbon. “You spend a lot of time at church?”
“Nope.”
“Because you’ve never been outside of Hoss?”
He sucks on his teeth, staring down at me with a dark expression. Maybe my assumption is wrong, and he leaves with Denver whenever he wants? Who the hell knows?
“Right.” I shift to the edge of the bed. “So…other than drawing on your body and smoking two packs a day, what do you do for entertainment around here?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“When the chores are finished, what do you do for fun?”
“Oh. Well, we walk in circles and bang our heads against the wall. Only the strongest sons have survived this long. My other brothers…How many have there been? So many. They lost their minds and wandered into the hills, never to be seen again.”
I blink, certain he’s joking.
He is joking, right?
“What?” He scratches his jaw. “No one told you?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
The silence strangles, and I want to climb out of my skin the longer he stares at me.
Then he smiles a disarmingly gorgeous smile.
I would probably melt at the sight of such beauty if I didn’t want to drive my fist through it.
“You really need a sense of humor,” he says.
“I have one when I’m not being held by a family of psychos.”
“We’re not psychos.”
“Your father stuffed me in a box and flew me to a place that looks like an alien ice planet. Leonid gave me a knife and told me to slice my wrists. Kodiak was going to shoot an arrow through me while I was trapped under the snowmobile, and you…” I wave a hand in his direction. God, there’s so much to unpack there. I settle on… “A crown of thorns is inked on your forehead.”
