Page 21 of Hollow Forest

But I understood.

Whatever happened in her past, gave her the sudden spikes of fear that she felt in moments like this.

Which was exactly why we were taking this slow. Why I was torturing myself with holding back.

I gave her the simplest answer to her question. “You’re mine.”

“Said who!” she retorted hotly and tried to scramble away.

But she was right where she belonged, and I wasn’t letting her go anytime soon.

“You do, Samantha,” I whispered roughly and bent. I brushed the tip of my nose over hers. There was a mask between us. This wasn’t touching. “It’s the way you breathe when I’m close.”

“You don’t even know me,” she fired back.

I shrugged. “I saw you get off the bus. I followed to make sure you were safe, and I’ve watched you ever since.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” she said, but her words ended in a yawn. “Next time, I’m shooting you.”

“I can’t think of a better way to die than at your hands,” I whispered.

With a huff, she closed her eyes. Maybe it was the long walks down the back country roads or the long days serving coffee. But more probably it was the exhaustion from the bad dream. Her breathing steadied. Her body relaxed.

I counted to one hundred in my head, then slowly lowered her to the ground. Tucking the blanket around her, I snatched my hands back before they did something dumb.

Like brush the hair off her cheek.

She was asleep before I made it to the door.

“Rest well, beautiful. Your devil is watching over you now,” I rasped before closing it tight. Samantha would learn that by coming to the Cove, she’d entwined her existence with mine. I would build a life for her here. One where she became the center of my world. Only then would I break her. Reshape her life until it was one where I could exist with her.

Sam was mine. Somewhere in the space of a few days, I claimed her.

She just hadn’t accepted it yet.

Chapter 8 – Samantha

“He’s here again,” Michael informed me in a stage whisper.

I looked up from the container of apple cider that I was premixing in the back. “Who?”

I knew the answer, of course. It might be Saturday afternoon, and on top of the usual stream of customers, a gaggle of women visiting the cove for girls’ weekend chattered out in the café. The local craft fair had brought more foot traffic to the busy town square.

But that wasn’t what the other barista was talking about.

My coworker gave me a knowing look. “He wants you to make his usual.”

“Um….” I pointed to the refill batch I was making.

Michael took the ladle from me. “I’ve got this.”

There was no hiding. Taking a deep breath, I moved from the safety of the kitchen to make the cappuccino. It was now a running joke amongst the others. While they seemed to have a healthy awareness of a certain customer, the baristas thought it was hysterical that Joey had come every day this week and always requested I make his drink.

I felt more than saw him sitting in the back. The handyman always snagged the same seat. Today, like the first time he’d come in, he was with his friend. That should have meant his focus was on the conversation.

But as I frothed the milk, awareness danced over my skin. I had to focus to keep from brushing the prickle at the base of my neck.

I wonder if….