Chapter 13

As I hobbled into the cabin earlier, I couldn't believe she'd fucking shot me. My arm was in the most pain I've ever been in, and I've been shot before. Mind you, they were bullets, but even my stab wounds don't hurt as bad as the fucking arrow did.

I'd got it out, mangling my shoulder further when I did. The tip was intact, thank god. So I didn't have to go digging around for any pieces that might've broken off.

Sewing with my left hand isn't ideal, but I'd gotten the job done just fine. It's not the prettiest, nor will the scar be. It'll only add to the gnarled marks already littering my flesh.

I'd lost myself with her. I couldn't help my reaction, nor how I'd pursued once she ran.

Fuck, I love when they run.

She'd given me a better chase than any of my previous victims ever had. It's the only thing that's got me still sitting at the table, sipping whiskey, and thinking of how to go forward from here.

I know what my mind is telling me to do. It's telling me to go to her little shelter and rip her from inside it kicking and screaming. To tie her up and take my pound of flesh for what she did to me.

The dark monster I keep caged inside my head roars in approval, and I grip the whiskey bottle tighter.

I take a deep breath, but nothing in my head changes. Not the pressure from the stiffness setting into my shoulder, not the images of her as my prisoner. None of it is good.

Part of me that has been slowly dying for a long time. But he should. He's done a lot of bad. He'd done a lot of good, too, but more bad.

Some that neither part of me could control, either.

Grumbling, I ignore the blood on my boots as I slam the whiskey bottle onto the table, standing and moving into my room to get a fresh shirt and jacket on.

Part of me knows where this is headed. That the place I'm headed, and the bag I'm about to grab, means the very opposite of what I've been telling myself. That part of me that craves to inflict pain and do terrible things to the human body is very much alive and well.

I've only been ignoring him.

Opening the closet in the guest room I still don't know why I built onto the cabin, I grab my bag, throwing it over my shoulder. When I shut the door, my image stares back at me from the mirror hanging on the back of it. "Come on, friend. We're going on a fucking adventure."

* * *

I've movedher door and tugged her bag out of the small opening, and she hasn't roused. Still, she's smarter than I gave her credit for.

A better shot, too.

I roll my eyes inwardly. She's not in her sleeping bag as I'd planned for. She's on top of it, crossbow loaded, and lying on her chest in her firm grip.

So this will need to be quick. Or the little fiend will cause me more pain and frustration.

Setting my bag down on the fallen log outside of her shelter, I hurry for my cuffs before the cold air sneaking in her door rouses her. Putting my pack onto my back, I prepare for a fight.

I stand over the shelter, taking steadying breaths before I grab her by her feet and rip her out of the comfort of its interior. I keep dragging her across the snow until I'm certain I have enough room to work, and her crossbow has fallen away from her wicked little hands.

"Hey! What the fuck?!" she shouts. "Help!" she screams, and it sets my soul on fire with happiness. The pain in her tone alone is music to my ears.

"Sapevi che stavo arrivando. Non agire sorpreso," I grunt out as I flip her and cuff her hands to her back. — "You knew I was coming. Do not act surprised."

Of course, I can speak English, but it's more comfortable after all these years to use my native tongue. Papa had required us to all learn Italian fluently. As it's what we can use when we're in situations where we can't speak English freely.

And now, I'm thankful.

I heft her off the ground, and her backside hits my front. A growl makes its way out of her as she wiggles against me. Reaching behind my back to my holster, I grab my gun, pressing its near-frozen tip to her temple.

"Smettila di litigare, coniglietto. Sei preso," I tell her, whispering it in her ear. — "Cease your fighting, bunny. You're caught."

"Laisse-moi partir, brute italienne!" she spits at me, and my brows furrow. It's French, another language Papa insisted we learn. I speak four languages. It's how she'd figured out what I was saying earlier. I don't know if I should give any sign I know what she's said, however. — "Let me go, you Italian brute!"

"Mais tu me dois du sang," I whisper against her ear, turning her and heading for the woods. I don't care that I've shown my hand. Her answering shiver says she knows what I've said, and I grin as I force her towards the bridge. — "But you owe me blood."

When I get her back to the cabin after fighting her the entire way, I'm ready to lock her away and throw the key into the fucking stream. She cursed at me in three languages, and I ignored how it made my heart throb in my chest.

She's going to pay for what she did, and it's going to feed the hungry beast inside me. Her fighting slows as I take her up the stairs of the cabin. She's confused that I'm not living in a cave, clearly.

I've got to look like a mythical beast to her in the state I've let my beard grow to.

"Avant!" I shout, pressing her forward through the door that enters the dining area, and kitchen to the left. — "Forward!"

I lead her through the cabin, toward the basement where I keep storage items. And all my old tools from when I was Lucio's punisher. She'll be right at home on the table I've slaughtered so many upon. I just know it. Then she'll be a trophy that lives in my mind for the rest of my days.

My favorite one, no doubt.

"Please," she says, in English this time. Her tone is soft and pleading, and I nearly groan at the feel against my sick soul.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm a shit-shot. I was scared!" she goes on.

Gun at her back, I shove her forward. She begins down the stairs that lead to the basement. To her new home.

Half of me wants to keep her. She'd be fun to play with. But toys don't last.

"Vous le pensiez. Il n"y a pas de retour en arrière maintenant, lapin." — "You meant it. There's no going back now, bunny."

"S'il vous pla?t, Monsieur. Je ferais tout. Ne me fais pas de mal," she begs as she trips down the last step. The way she called me Sir almost broke me. The soft raspy tone in her voice. Then she turns, pinning me with blue eyes that look as if they're the depths of the ocean beyond this island. But purer. — "Please, Sir. I"ll do anything. Don"t hurt me."

For a moment, I consider her offer to do anything for me, but then I scoff at the idea. They all plead; I remind myself.

I motion for her to turn, and she does so. I remove her cuffs. She won't need them down here. The door locks from the outside. Safety precautions in case they ever came for me, and I needed to take a hostage.

Her eyes continue to beg me to spare her when she turns back around and rubs her wrists.

It's what they do. They try to survive. I've watched her survive. She's a smarter little bunny than I originally gave her credit for.

"May I?" she asks, stepping toward me, and I lift my gun.

She doesn't bristle, however, only steps purposefully with her hands in the air in defense. I don't move. For some fucking reason, my attacker moves toward me, and I don't fucking move away.

Not even a twitch of a muscle.

Not until she makes to remove my jacket. I shift the gun into the other hand, my left one. As she removes the jacket sleeve from my right arm. My long sleeve is now in her way. But instead of taking it off, she peels the collar over to look at the wound I'd butchered with stitches.

She hisses, tsking at the way I'd healed myself.

"This looks awful. Did you clean this?"

She's so close I can smell the musk of her unwashed body. It's too cold to wash this time of year unless you've got a shower like I have. But she doesn't stink. Her scent is the most alluring thing I've ever encountered.

She realizes maybe I can't understand her, even though I do. Perfectly fine.

"Avez-vous nettoyé cela?" — "Have you cleaned this?"

Despite myself, I fucking nod.

"Good, don't want it to get infected. I don't know what the fuck came over me," she says to herself, letting my collar go. It pulls back tightly to my neck, and I narrow my gaze on her as she turns and scrubs her face with her hands.

"You're going to kill me. Of course, you're going to kill me. Look what I did to you. I knew I should've stayed home. I'm not cut out for this shit. I'm making a mess of everything. I always do!" She plops onto the very table I want her on.

But the state she's in gives me pause.

But only for a second.

"Enlève tes vêtements." — "Remove your clothes."

She scoffs. "As if. What, you think because I shot you I'm going to let you fuck babies into me? You can't just take someone prisoner and then demand they remove their clothing. Fuck off."

She rubs absently at her arms as she crosses them in defense.

"Enlevez-les, ou je les enlèverai avec ma lame," I growl, and her eyes go wide. — "Take them off, or I will remove them with my blade."

"Fuck's sake," she breathes, slipping off the tabletop and starting with her jacket.

She's far thinner than I thought. She likely already lost weight in the week she's been squatting on my property. She's still got curves that show plainly through the rest of her clothes.

I wave my gun through the air, motioning for her next layer.

Her shaky hands grip the hem of her shirt before she resigns with a sigh and lifts it over her head.

Her body is dirty, and her ribs are showing. Anger rushes me as I take her in. At the abysmal state she's let herself get into. It's not healthy. I want to know why she's out here and why she's doing this. What is the point of it all?

But I don't need to know. I can't get attached to her. It'll be harder when it's time to end it all.

"Coniglietto delicato. Perché stai tremando?" — "Delicate bunny, why are you shaking?"

Switching back to Italian means I know she doesn't understand me. But I meant it that way. Toying with her has my heart racing. I'm alive again. I'll do it for as long as I can.

"Mostrami il resto." I wave the gun once more. "Il lupo vuole vedere la sua cena," I tease. — "Show me the rest. The wolf wants to see his dinner."