Page 32 of Sweet Doe
It's below zero and I’m not even cold. Not with her looking like that. Not when I know what’s under all those layers. What she tastes like under my tongue. What she sounds like when she falls apart.
She’s mine, and watching her trudge through the snow like this—lips pink, cheeks flushed, breath sharp in the air does something to me. Something primal and fucking permanent.
The snow is deeper today. Heavy, wet stuff that clings to your boots and tugs at your calves with every step. A whole new layer dumped overnight, thick enough to drown the path we took yesterday, swallow the porch, smooth out the world into something fresh and untouched.
Sloan’s ahead of me at first, bundled in a black parka, scarf tucked up to her chin, boots clumsy as she trudges through the snow, trying to match my pace. Her hips sway just enough tomake the hike worth it. Every few steps, I catch myself staring—like a fucking deviant.
Then she stops, breath fogging sharp in the cold, one gloved hand braced on her thigh as she catches her breath. “Jesus,” she mutters. “You’re trying to kill me?”
I smirk, stepping past her. “Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble to stalk you, learn about you, and kidnap you, just to kill you in the middle of nowhere? With no witness? Where’s the fun in that?”
She gives me a glare that doesn't stick, then falls in behind me. I sigh, just a little. There goes the view.
Still—she hasn’t complained. Not really. Even though her legs are half the length of mine. Even though I didn’t tell her where we’re going. That alone makes something warm flicker low in my chest. Obedience is one thing. But this? This is… choice. She didn’t have to come with me. She wanted to.
Or maybe she didn’t want to be left behind.
Either way, she’s here.
“We’re tracking deer,” I say over my shoulder. “They’ve been skirting the treeline more often—probably bedding somewhere closer. If we get lucky, we’ll catch their trail before the snow buries it again.”
She doesn’t respond, but I hear her footsteps slow, crunch-crunch-crunch as she pushes forward. Her silence isn’t icy anymore. It’s thoughtful. She watches the trees like she’s trying to memorize every curve of bark, every drift, every branch still clinging to frozen berries.
I like her like this. Alert. Curious. Alive.
We hike further into the woods, past the place where the pines grow thicker and the hush gets deeper, more intimate. The snow eats the sound of our steps, turning everything ghost-quiet. A single crow caws from a distance, then goes still.
For a while, I don’t say anything. Just listen to the rhythm of our breathing. Her sniffles. The crunch of snow under our boots. The way the trees creak above us, bare branches reaching like bones toward the white sky. It’s not as cold now that we’re moving, but the silence wraps around us like a second skin—thick, unbroken, peaceful in a way most people would find eerie.
She finally breaks it.
“You’re… weirdly okay with all this.”
I glance over my shoulder. “All what?”
“The isolation,” she says, trudging along. “The quiet. Being out here alone. It doesn’t bother you.”
I grin to myself. “Should it?”
She shrugs. “Most people go stir-crazy when they’re cut off. You? You act like you were born for it.”
That grin fades, just a little. I slow my pace.
“Maybe I was,” I say quietly.
She frowns, but doesn’t ask.
Not yet.
I let the pause hang, waiting for the trail to flatten before I give in and glance at her again. She’s watching me, curious, but cautious—like she’s trying to decide whether or not she’s allowed to ask more.
So I save her the trouble.
“I spent a lot of time alone when I was locked up,” I say. “Silence doesn’t scare me. It’s familiar, I guess.”
Her brows pinch. “Locked up?”
I don’t stop, nodding once before I look forward again. “Institution. A few of them. First one was when I was eleven.”
