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The Beast’s gaze falls on me again. “You think coming here and offering yourself to me is going to be his penance, that it will somehow absolve your father of his sins?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know why I came up here or what I expected, really. All I do know is that if I didn’t drive up this godforsaken mountain, what would happen to my father was spelled out pretty damn clearly.”
His jaw tightens again, a muscle near his ear ticcing wildly. He raises a brow. “And what was your plan?”
The “plan” I had worked out during my drive now seems totally stupid after the incident on the porch that bled into the woods. And since he was the one who asked for me to come, it seems more sensible to put things in his hands—as long as he doesn’t use them to strangle the life out of me. “I assumed you had one, since you requested my presence.”
Requested.
More like demanded.
But antagonizing him with my word choice doesn’t seem wise right now.
He downs the rest of his drink, his hand tightening around the glass as he pushes to his feet. Even from across the room, his towering presence dwarfs me, and he moves closer, getting bigger and more threatening with every sure stride forward.
Still wearing worn, ripped jeans, his exposed, chiseled chest and washboard abs covered in silver hair that matches that on his head rises and falls with his steady breaths. His massive, veined arms—one bearing what appears to be the Barker family crest—honed from countless years of manual labor, seem to throb with the blood flowing through them.
He steps into the sliver of light coming in through the open door, and it illuminates his profile.
My first real look at the man in any form of light not provided by the moon.
Sweet Jesus.
Weston Barker is fucking stunning.
Easily in his mid-fifties, he certainly doesn’t look, nor act, like it.
Even without his reputed relish for violence, I can see how he could have earned the nickname The Beast. The pure, animalistic, raw power permeates every move he makes. Vibrating through taut muscle. Floating on every breath he takes. Expanding his barrel chest. It lies in every damn look he tosses my way. The unyielding focus and intent enough to make anyone wither under it.
He certainly has lived up to his reputation—and then some.
And I’m suddenly vividly aware of everything he does.
The twitch of his hand. The tightening of the other around the glass. That damn muscle in his jaw that seems to tic constantly.
He stares at me from the end of the bed for a moment, far too long for a stranger to examine someone, then turns and grabs his axe from beside the chair and stalks toward the cracked door.
“Wait!” I inch forward. “Where are you going?”
Sharp gray eyes peer over his shoulder. “None of your fucking business.”
“But what about…what am I supposed to…”
He steps out and pulls the door closed behind him without acknowledging me or speaking another word.
A lock clicks into place, sealing my fate.
“What? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Panic tightens my chest, and I throw back the covers and scramble off the side of the bed, momentarily forgetting about my injury until I put pressure down on my sole and yelp. “Fuck!”
Agony sears through my entire leg, and I stumble, immediately grasping the closest bedpost to hold me upright.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
I grit my teeth and hop on my one good foot across the short distance to the door, then try the handle, even though I know what I’m going to find.
It doesn’t budge.
The Beast has locked me in here.
