Page 35 of Roped

And I manage to whisper, “I-I thought I was… g-going to die.”

He squeezes me to him, his voice low. “No.”

“I thought—”

“Not on my watch.”

Something about his words soften the last of my dread and I sigh into his neck. “I liked that b-better.”

“What?”

I swallow, rubbing my nose on his neck, breathing in his scent. “You calling me darlin’.”

His chest moves again, shudders almost, and his fingers in my hair flex as he says, as if to make me happy, “Darlin’.”

I close my eyes at how good that feels. “Instead of you c-calling me… Princess.”

His arms flex around me again, and this time, he whispers, “Princess.”

He says it so gently, so lovingly, and so unlike all the other times before that all I can do is gasp. Like he knew this was what I wanted. This was how I wished he’d call me Princess. With tenderness, not with venom.

For a few moments all I do is breathe against his neck, cherishing the gift he gave me, and all he does is rub my back. All I think about is how warm he feels, how strong and vital. How I never ever want to leave this place, his arms, because I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted to feel his strength for months, since the first moment I saw him. The first moment I watched him save me, single-handedly felling the men trying to hurt me. My Phantom in a mask. My hero.

But then I go still.

Because he’s not my Phantom, is he? He’s not my hero. He didn’t save me. Not tonight or any other night. He’s the one who hunted me. He’s the one who put me in danger. Almost had me killed, almost had me eaten. By the wolves. How could I forget? How could I let it escape me that he did this to me?

All of a sudden, I’m filled with rage. I’m breathing fire instead of his scent. I push myself away from him and look at his face. Look at his evil, murdering but still beautiful face. The lines of which are set firm and blank, his scar thick. But not so blank that I don’t read the resignation on it, at what he did. Or the realization that I’ve finally found my lost senses.

I’ve finally found my anger, my fight. “Let me go.”

He stares into my eyes for a few beats, and I think I’m going to have to make him. I’m going to have to struggle against him, and with the way I’m feeling right now, I know I’d come out on top. Maybe he knows that too. That now is not the time to fuck with me because surprisingly, very surprisingly, he does what I asked him to do. He stops rubbing my spine and slowly brings his hand out of my hair. Pulling his arms away, he lets me slide down his body. Slowly, deliberately almost, keeping our eyes locked. As if he’s trying to catch the last few seconds, savor them, of my body touching his before he has to let me go. Before he has to give up the feel of my soft and rounded corners rubbing against his ridged and hard ones.

As if, like me, he wanted to feel me in his arms.

You’re delusional, Peyton. So fucking delusional. Even now.

I clench my teeth against the onslaught of goose bumps across my skin, and as soon as I hit the ground, I step away from him. Only to bump against a tree at my back. At which point I realize we’re standing by the tree line, far away from the edge. Thank God. I block it out, though, being chased by the wolves and how I almost went off the edge. Instead, with my heart pounding inside my chest, I raise my bound hands and order, “Untie me.”

It’s exactly what I said to him yesterday. And again, I’m prepared to fight him on this and win. I’m prepared to wreak havoc if he doesn’t give me what I want. But for the second time in the space of only a few minutes, he does what I say. He reaches back into his jeans pocket and fishes something out. A knife. It’s a pocketknife, too, but unlike mine, this one’s bigger, and without looking away from me, he cuts the rope with one flick of his hand. It’s still wound around my wrists, but just like that, I’m free. I look at him and then I look at the knife in his hand. And before I can think it through, I snatch it away. The weapon feels heavy, the weight. Unexpected. I wasn’t prepared to handle it, but now that I have it, I grab it with both hands and instantly point it at him. Then, as sternly as I can, I order, “Put your hands where I can see them.”

He glances down at his knife before lifting his eyes. I know he notices the trembling. He notices how tightly I’m gripping the handle, how unpracticed I look while holding it. Probably even more so tonight than I did last night. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he slowly raises his arms, his palms wide, in a gesture of surrender. Although calling it a surrender is so fucking ridiculous that I’d laugh if I could. All this position does is display how big his hands are, that I could fit both of mine in one of his. And how taut and bulging his biceps are; how they’re hills of their own.

I tighten my grip around the knife and put it on his neck. Then, poking the blade in, I ask, “How did you know where we were?”

He keeps watching me with glittering eyes. “Arsen came to me. Said he couldn’t find Reverie in her room. Had a hunch you’d be involved.” He takes a pause here as if preparing me for the worst. Then, “Checked the feed on my phone, found your bed empty too.”

“Feed?”

He chooses to remain silent at this.

I’m about to demand his answer when it occurs to me and my words stumble as I ask, “Do you… do you have cameras in my room?”

“My room,” he replies strangely.

“What?”

“That’s my room.”