9. Chapter Nine

Cally

Though I’m not exactly an Oscar-worthy actress, I’m doing an admirable job of crying. It’s not too big of a stretch. I mean, just about anyone else on Earth would be crying right now. I certainly have good reason.

It’s just that this has nothing to do with my sadness, and everything to do with a bid for sympathy. And distraction. I’ll play the poor pitiful me card and keep Sylas from noticing that I slipped my cell phone into my backpack while I rummaged in the car for my camera.

“Things will get better,” he croons. “You’ll see. Once the colonel knows about you and assigns you your own room in the barracks with the other females, you’ll have friends and perhaps a job to keep you busy. You might… might even get used to seeing splicers. We’re not so bad.”

Shit. I hate tricking him. He’s kind of a nice guy. I think if it were up to him, he’d let me go. That doesn’t mean I’ll quit trying to run away. I’m certainly not going to spend the next twenty months here.

“I hate to do this, but before we go any further, I’ll have to confiscate your phone.” He holds out his palm.

How the fuck did he see that? Does he have eagle eyes in addition to his elk DNA?

“Phone?” I try my Oscar acting abilities again, feigning sweet, wide-eyed innocence.

He makes a gimmee motion with his hand as he clucks in disappointment. “Phone, Cally.”

“Okaay.” I reluctantly drag the word out, all while retaining hope that I can talk my way out of relinquishing the phone. Even if he confiscates my phone, there’s no way he can know about the extra car key I slipped into my pocket. I was super stealthy when I snuck it there, like a world-class criminal.

“Phone,” he repeats in that way my mom used when she’d had it up to here with me and resorted to monosyllables to remind me to do my homework.

I pull it out of where I slipped it in my backpack between my bras and panties, then hand it to him.

He rummages through everything I brought from the car. At least Tater’s bag of dog chow was unopened, or Sylas might have dumped the contents on the ground to ensure I hadn’t snuck any contraband into the kibble.

“Now I’ll have to frisk you.”

“Frisk?” The word came out as a terrified yelp.

“You can’t be trusted, and I don’t want to have to tie you up. Please, just hand over anything else you snuck through the fence.”

He allows me to mull over his request while he quite efficiently removes the battery from my phone and tosses it over the fifteen-foot fence and into the woods across the road. Shit. I was hoping I might use the phone after he went to sleep.

“There’s nothing to hand over. I’ll have you know that frisking me is against Article 4.2 of the Geneva Convention.”

Perhaps I’m not the great actress I was imagining, because his response to my threat is a poorly contained snort of derision.

“I hate to do this, Cally, but I’m going to frisk you.”

I’m having a huge internal fight with myself. The guy’s in heat, or rut, or whatever. His humongous cock, which leaves nothing to the imagination, is still trying to punch its way out of his khakis. If I look closely, I think I see the plump, plum-shaped head trying to break free under the fabric above his hip bone. The idea of his hands on me is terrifying.

Should I just give up? Hand the damn key over? No. He’s a virgin. Didn’t he say he’d never even met a female before? Surely he won’t have the balls to slide his hands into my pockets. Will he?

“You can’t frisk me. It’s… abusive. Besides. I don’t have anything for you to find.”

“Did I mention my sense of smell is ten thousand times better than yours? I smell your emotions, Cally. You’re lying. I don’t want to have to frisk you.” He shudders as his gaze rakes over my body in a way that reminds me I’m a woman who hasn’t had a boyfriend in a long, long time. “Just hand it over. Please.”

There’s something about his pleading tone that makes me believe he’s about to drop the subject, so I double down, throw my shoulders back, and insist, “No. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Tell Tater Tot to sit and stay. He’s not going to like what I’m about to do, and I don’t want to have to fight him off. We all know who will win. Don’t make me do that.”

“You’re really going to… touch me?” I tremble as the words escape my lips, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through my veins. The air feels charged with tension as Sylas’s umber gaze locks onto mine.

Every nerve ending is on high alert, buzzing with electric energy that seems to connect us. My senses are heightened. Is it possible I welcome his touch?

“Tell him, Cally. Make him sit and stay.”

The trees and scrub bushes fade into the background as the heat between us becomes suffocating, intoxicating. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and I shiver involuntarily. Time slows as I become acutely aware of every sensation surrounding me.

A subtle scent wafts through the air—an earthy musk mixed with something uniquely him—that further ignites my senses. My heart pounds, its rhythmic beat echoing loudly in my ears. It only intensifies the longing pooling within me.

This is insane! He’s an elk-man. I barely just met him. He’s holding me prisoner. Against my will! There are a dozen other reasons I should hate him. But there is a magnetic attraction between us, like a pile of metal shavings being pulled to a powerful magnet.

I could stop this now, just hand over the damn key. But between my stubborn nature and this insane desire to have his palms sweep over every inch of my body like they do in the movies, I repeatedly insist I’m not hiding anything.

Instead, I point to the ground and give Tater the commands. He chuffs his reluctance, but sits as Sylas steps between my feet and squats, his gaze never leaving mine.

Taking a shaky breath, waves of fear and exhilaration coil through me like a sidewinder getting ready to strike.

Briefly, his fingertips graze under the hem of my jeans, sending goosebumps cascading across my skin like waves crashing against rocky shores. A soft moan escapes me. It’s a raw reaction brought forth from deep within as he continues tracing upward along the outside of both legs. It’s slow and so sensual it’s almost unbearable.

My mind tries desperately not to lose itself in these sinful desires blossoming inside me, but it’s futile. Although it’s surreal, this seductive pull radiating between us is as unfathomable as it is undeniable.

Maybe this is a hallucination. I feel floaty and slightly confused as I sway on my feet. His face is as high as my waist, his antlers almost pressing against my breasts as he leans forward to grip me. When he changes the placement of his hands so he can slide them up the inside of my thighs, I gasp.

The sensations they create send an electrifying shock coursing straight to my core. My breathing quickens and the world around us dissolves into blurred images as my focus tightens on his hands and the insistent pulsing between my thighs.

I glance into his eyes, then drown in their umber depths. His nostrils flare slightly, hinting at his primal instincts taking over. Is it possible he can scent not just my fear, but the illicit desire thrumming through every fiber of my being?

“Cally,” he murmurs, his voice husky, dripping with vulnerability and need. What does he want?

And then it happens—the air is filled with a deep guttural sound emanating from Sylas’s chest—an unmistakable mating call that reverberates between us like seismic waves crashing against rocky cliffs. It sends shivers racing up and down my spine as something inside me responds to his primitive need.

His hands are halfway between my knees and the juncture of my thighs. His thumbs are inches from my core when his gaze pierces mine, and he begs, “Please, Cally. How I’m feeling isn’t right. This,” he gestures with his chin toward his hands still hovering so temptingly close to where I ache for him, “isn’t right. Just give me the fucking key. I know you grabbed it when you were in your car. Please don’t make me do this.” Raw desperation is etched across his handsome face.

His words slice through the intoxicating haze surrounding us, grounding me back into reality with a jolt of clarity.

I break the spell. My hand can’t move fast enough to slip into the left cup of my bra, produce the key, hold it between thumb and forefinger, and step back as I offer it to him wordlessly.

Part of me is bereft at the loss of his warm grip from around my legs, the other part is relieved. The entrancing attraction arcing between us was so powerful, it was like an electric current was severed the moment we were no longer touching.

“Here.” Somehow I manage to make my tone full of irritation instead of how I really feel, which is that I mourn the loss of his heated touch. “Take the damn key.”