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He doesn’t notice me as he sifts through vegetation, harvesting the day’s yield, talking to himself. Alone.
Where is she?
Leo’s still in the workshop, determined to repair the snow machine before winter. A fire burns in the smokehouse, accompanied by Denver’s whistling tune.
I return to the cabin, stalking the rooms on silent feet. Then I hear her.
The library.
Should’ve looked there first. She’s spent the past week scouring every book and fast-forwarding through movies and documentaries, searching for something.
I back into the shadows of Denver’s bedroom across the hall and watch her from the cloak of darkness.
If I don’t keep an eye on her, my brothers will do something stupid. She only needs to crook her finger, and they’ll cave.
But that’s only half true. My own control barely hangs on by a thread.
She teases the palate like the finest vodka—soft, creamy, smooth, seductive—with incomparable finesse and a long finish, like a chilling aria in an opera.
I’m enthralled, and it’s a terrible thing to do to someone like me. Terrible for everyone.
Just look at you, Frankie. I can’t stop looking. It’s your fault I can’t stay away, and I hate you for that. Look at how fucking gorgeous you are. It’s sickening.
My eyes coast over her, greedy for every detail. The perfect shape of her pink mouth. The tiny peaks of tits beneath the T-shirt. Delicately sculpted legs wrapped in denim. Fire-red hair falling everywhere, wavy and wild, still damp from a shower.
Already washed me off, did you? How did you sleep, drenched in my come? Did you dream about the beast in your bed? I bet you woke feeling flushed and dirty, and it had nothing to do with your husband.
She washed the bedding, too. The moment she woke, it all went into the machine. Does she know it was come? It’s not like she’ll ask us. As far as she knows, she’s the only one in that bed at night.
I need to smell her, to wrench her legs open as far as they’ll go and bury my nose between her filthy thighs. I’m desperate to rub her intoxicating scent all over my face.
That won’t happen again. Last night went too far.
I don’t know how long I stand there, drinking her in. I feel like an animal, staring at my next meal, scenting the air, and licking my lips. I can watch this woman do nothing for hours on end. Time doesn’t exist when I’m lost in the sinful, addictive fantasy of her.
Oblivious to my presence, she pores through books, discarding some quickly and scanning every page of others.
What are you looking for? The key to your freedom? You’re wasting your time.
She’ll never find it because it doesn’t exist.
Eventually, her stomach growls, and she looks up from her book, alarmed.
“Shit.” She wraps an arm around her waist and groans. “Shit.”
She barely eats and never joins our family dinners. Denver lets her get away with it because of her injuries. That’ll change soon. He’ll want her strong and healthy for the winter.
For what he has planned.
Anger simmers in my veins, but I force myself to relax. It’s not my problem.
Rising to her feet, she puts away the book and pads out of the library.
I retreat deeper into the shadows, waiting until she passes.
Then I do what I was born to do. I stalk my quarry.
Because Denver’s right.
I am a hunter.
17
Frankie
—
Forty-one days.
It’s been forty-one days since I’ve seen Monty, felt his touch, heard his voice and his parting words.
I can’t live without you, Frankie. You’re my soul mate. I love you so much it scares me.
And what did I say in return?
Nothing.
I let him walk out that morning and didn’t even say I love you.
Not until after he left.
It haunts me. Torments me. Day and night.
Would I be clinging to thoughts of him if I’d left on my own?
Probably.
But not like this. He’s the only comfort I have here.
He doesn’t know I still love him.
He doesn’t know I lost the baby.
He doesn’t even know I’m in danger.
I miss that man with every breath in my body, and sometimes, the ache is so unbearable I can’t breathe.
But I will see him again.
That’s what propels me out of bed every day. I put on a brave face and pretend I don’t have four sets of feral eyes tracking my every move.
No more hiding in fear. I’m done with that. And no tears. I’m done with those, too.
I exit the library after another fruitless day of research. There’s literally nothing in their vast collection of literature and film that contains aircraft or cockpits. I’ve wracked my brain for a list of movies that may help me learn. Top Gun. Les chevaliers du ciel. Airplane! Sully. The Aviator. Pearl Harbor. Motherfucking Snakes on a Plane.
None of those are here. Every movie imaginable fills the shelves in the massive library. Except those. There isn’t a single book or film that shows the inside of a plane.
