Page 15 of Sweet Doe
She’ll be cold if I don’t fix that.
I grab the axe on my way out, sparing one last look at her over my shoulder. The breakfast is set. The cabin is quiet. And she’s still right where I left her—wrapped in my clothes, in my world.
“You’re mine now, Sloan,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “You always were.”
Then I step out into the morning chill to keep the fire alive. For her. Always for her.
Chapter Five
SLOAN
The sound of an axe splitting wood jolts me awake from a deep sleep. The steadythunk, thunk, thunkechoes through the cabin walls.
Sunlight streams through the bedroom windows now, weak and pale but definitely daylight. How long have I been asleep? An hour? Three?
The chopping continues steadily outside. He's out there somewhere, probably preparing to keep me locked up here all winter.
There’s a plate of bacon and eggs accompanied by a steaming mug of coffee on the nightstand next to me, making my stomach instantly growl, but that’s not where my mind’s at right now. I need to learn more about him.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I slide out of bed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. With him occupied outside, I have the opportunity to look around. To search for information I can use against him and eventually find a way out of here.
I creep to the bedroom door and ease it open, wincing at the soft creak of hinges. The main living area is empty, sunlight streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows that offersuch beautiful views of my frozen Hell. I can see him through the glass. He moves so surely, splitting log after log, his breath visible in the cold air.
He's taken off his coat, working in just a black t-shirt that clings to his frame. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flex with each swing of the axe, and I'm struck again by how different he is from Alex. Broader. Stronger. More predatory in every possible way. How didn’t I notice?
Focus, Sloan. You don't have long.
I pad through the living room on silent feet, memorizing every detail. The front door has multiple locks—deadbolts and chains that would take minutes to undo. The windows are large but don't appear to open, and even if they did, the drop to the ground outside would probably break something important.
But it's not the lack of escape routes that make my blood run cold. It's what I find when I start really looking at the fine details of this place.
My shampoo sits on the bathroom counter. The expensive stuff I splurge on because it makes my red hair shine like copper pennies. He didn’t bring this with him when we drove out here last night. He only brought a small black backpack…
He's been planning this for much longer than I realized.
My hands shake as I continue through the cabin. In the kitchen, the refrigerator is stocked with my favorite yogurt. The coffee is the exact blend I drink every morning. There's even a bottle of the vitamin supplements I take, still in their familiar amber container.
He’s trying to make a complete reconstruction of my life...
The realization makes my knees weak, and I have to grip the kitchen counter to keep from falling. This is so much worse than I thought it was.
But there's more to discover, and the sound of chopping is still echoing from outside. I force myself to keep moving, to keepsearching for anything that might help me understand more about him.
That's when I find his shrine.
It's in what should be a spare bedroom, tucked away at the back of the cabin. At first glance, it looks like an office—desk, chair, filing cabinet. Normal enough. But as I step inside, the true horror of what I'm seeing settles over me like a bucket of ice water.
The walls are covered with pictures of me.Hundredsof them, printed on regular paper and tacked up like some grotesque collage. Me leaving my apartment in the morning. Me at the grocery store. Me getting my hair done at the salon where I work. Me laughing with friends at restaurants I barely remember visiting.
Some of the photos are taken from a distance, obviously shot with a telephoto lens. Others are closer, intimate shots that suggest he was sometimes mere feet away from me. There's one of me sitting in my car at a red light, completely unaware that someone was documenting my entire life.
But it's not just photos.
The desk is covered with notebooks, their pages filled with his handwriting. I grab the nearest one with trembling hands, flipping it open to reveal page after page of notes about my daily life. What time I leave for work. Which coffee shop I stop at. How long I spend at the gym. What I wear on different days of the week.
Tuesday, October 15th – Red sweater, black jeans. Stopped at Starbucks, ordered venti caramel macchiato, extra shot. Seemed tired. Probably stayedup late watching Netflix again. She does that when she's anxious about something.
Friday, October 18th – She's been avoiding Alex's calls. Smart girl. He doesn't deserve her attention. Soon she won't have to pretend to care about his pathetic attempts at conversation.
