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Sweat pours down my back.
I finally cast a glance into the trees and lean against my axe, swiping my brow, trying to catch my breath after the exertion. “You leave her alone. If she has to stay, then you stay away from the house. You hear me?”
No response comes, but I hardly expected it to.
My warning will probably go unheeded.
But I’m not about to start a fight right now, nor do I want to stop the one thing that is letting me release some of the tension that’s built up in me.
I return to swinging, losing myself in the repetitive motion. The manual labor. The joy of the pain it brings me. For the first time since she drove up my mountain, I start to relax, allowing myself the freedom to stop thinking about the quagmire and instead breathe in the fresh air untainted by her honey scent.
Time ceases to exist.
The sun reaches its highest point. Its rays beat down on me relentlessly, warning me it’s time to take a break, to go in and get something to eat and drink, and every fiber of my being screams for me to stop.
But I don’t want to break.
I don’t want to be back in there.
You aren’t the only one you need to think about anymore, are you?
“Shit…”
She hasn’t been fed, and I locked her away in that room with nothing but her fear—which isn’t a bad thing, despite the way the thought makes acid rise in my throat.
Callista Fox should fear me.
What I’m capable of.
What the Barkers are willing to do.
It might be the only thing that keeps her alive during her time up here.
Chapter Three
CALLISTA
Iopen the bathroom door and cautiously step into the bedroom that has become my opulent prison cell. Wincing at the pain shooting through my foot at the applied pressure, my gaze immediately darts around the space, searching for what The Beast has left me.
Yesterday, in addition to my bag from my car filled with the few things I had packed and my purse, a stack of brand-new clothes awaited. Comfy yoga pants. Jeans. Sweatshirts and tees. A pair of slides that will be easy to get on and off with my injured foot.
All in exactly the right sizes and set next to a lavish basket of expensive, fancy bath products and a tray of food that must have been crafted by some talented chef he keeps hidden in the bowels of this massive house.
Though annoyed that The Beast timed the deliveries perfectly to arrive while I was in the en suite and couldn’t confront him about keeping me locked up in here, I can’t deny the man appears to be trying to make me as comfortable as he can.
But a lavish prison is still a prison.
Even though it’s only been a day since I woke in the massive bed with The Beast watching me from the corner, I’m already going stir-crazy. There are only so many times I can open every drawer, examine every inch of the room—to find nothing.
No clothes in the dresser or large walk-in closet.
Nothing personal in the bathroom vanity—only supplies I might need to care for the stitched wound on my foot.
Yet, a scent infuses the air in here. Something masculine. Fresh-cut wood, sunshine, leather, crisp mountain air, and that musky smell men only get when they’re outside doing manual labor. As if The Beast has spent a lot of time in this room.
It hangs heavy now, like I just missed him while I was showering.
A single sheet of paper rests in the middle of the king-sized bed—stark white against the rich, dark fabric of the comforter.
