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Maybe his.
I shift again to try to take stock of my body, to search for signs of anything untoward that may have happened while I was out.
Everything feels normal until I move my leg and the sharp prick of pain shoots through my foot again. I peel back the covers cautiously. A crisp white bandage wraps around my arch, holding gauze in place where I must have cut it on something in the woods.
God knows there were enough things to maim myself on out there.
Branches pulling at me and scratching. Rocks and twigs digging into my soles, tearing them apart with each stride I took, trying to escape the madman now watching me from the corner.
Why did he bandage me up?
I jerk my gaze up to his. Even from across the room, the heat of it radiates into me through the darkness. So does his pure, unadulterated ire.
This man isn’t to be trifled with, and I’ve done a lot of trifling.
He takes another sip of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his heavy swallow. “I suggest you answer my questions.” His free hand spreads wide, motioning toward the cracked bedroom door. “There’s nowhere for you to run. Especially on that foot.”
Shit.
He isn’t wrong about that.
Had he…
I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last few moments in the woods when he finally caught up with me.
Did he hit me, knock me out somehow?
My chest tightens, and I press a hand against it, imagining what he might have done that didn’t leave any physical evidence I can see or feel now.
“You passed out.” He pulls another sip from the tumbler. “I tended to your wound. You better stay off it for a few days, or you’re going to rip the stitches open.”
Stitches?
The Beast put stitches in my foot…
While my brain struggles to grasp that tidbit of wholly unexpected information, he sips his drink and sets down the glass, the tink of it hitting the wood making me flinch.
“I think it’s time you start explaining who you are and what the fuck you’re doing here. I’m not a patient man, and you’ve overstayed the welcome I never extended.”
Shit.
This is not how I wanted things to start.
I had a plan—one I had worked out and honed during my multi-hour drive from Helena up to Barker Mountain. It involved a lot of flashing skin and offering things that made my gag reflex engage several times along the highway. Instead, I’m a fucking mess.
Torn dress.
Scrapes and scratches along my exposed arms and legs.
Wounded foot.
Hair likely full of leaves and twigs and bugs from my race through the woods.
I run my shaking hands through it, pushing the tangles away from my face and avoiding looking at the man I came here to supplicate myself to. “My name is Callista Fox.”
He stiffens instantly, those gray eyes flashing with recognition. “Fox?”
The way he says my family name sends a chill through me, starting from my nape all the way down my spine, and goosebumps break out over my skin, making me shiver and tug the comforter tighter around me.
