Page 39 of Sweet Doe
Even now, as she lies curled on the couch wrapped in every blanket I own, her body tucked into the cushions like she was made to fit there, I can’t sit still. I keep pacing. Glancing at the windows. Running inventory in my head.
She notices.
Her voice is soft, raw. “What is it?”
I pause, glance down. She’s watching me through heavy lashes, a faint line between her brows.
“We’re low on fuel,” I admit. “Generator’s got a few hours left, maybe less. I’ve gotta get to town before the snow locks us in.”
She shifts slightly, tries to sit up. “Then go.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
She gives me a small, tired look. “I’ll be fine.”
I want to believe her. God, I do. But she’s still pale. Still weak. And despite everything—the warmth between us, the trust she’s beginning to show—I know her. I know that spark behind her eyes.
The one that never really dies, no matter how tired she is.
If I leave her untethered, she’ll run, and for once it won’t be because she hates me, or fears me.
Because it’s who she is. Because fighting is the only thing my sweet doe has ever known. This time, chasing her down wouldn’t get my blood pumping. It wouldn’t be a game. It would fuckingterrifyme.
So I kneel beside her again and brush her hair from her cheek. She leans into the touch. No flinching. No venom. Just…soft.
“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
She doesn’t argue. Just lets me lift her, light and fragile in my arms. She rests her head against my shoulder as I carry her up, step after careful step, until we reach the bedroom.
I lay her down on the sheets she’s been sleeping in for days now, and for a second I just stand there. Watching her. Wanting to believe she’s safe here without chains or locks or threats.
She sees it in my face. The hesitation. The guilt.
And still, when I reach for the drawer and pull out the cuffs, she doesn’t fight. She just extends her wrists. Willingly.
Fuck, she guts me.
I move slowly, careful not to touch her more than I have to, but her fingers brush mine anyway. Like she’s trying to make it easier. Like sheknowshow much this is killing me.
“I’ll be quick,” I say quietly as the lock clicks shut. “Swear it.”
She nods once, already half-asleep again, cheek pressed into the pillow. Trusting me. Even now.
I press a kiss to her temple and linger a moment too long.
Then I turn, grab my coat, and head out—heart in my throat, chains on the bed, and the weight of her safety wrapped around every goddamn step I take.
The town istwenty miles out, but it might as well be another fucking planet.
A cracked two-lane road claws through the woods until it hits this barely-a-blip-on-the-map excuse of a town. An old gas station bleeding rust, a crooked supply store with peeling signage and a bell that shrieks like it’s dying when you open the door. A few cabins squat off the road like rotten teeth, paint stripped by too many winters.
I park, hood up, head down, just another guy with a gas can and a list. I keep my voice low, and I don’t make eye contact. But I see them.Fuck, do I see them.
Men. Too many.
Hunters mostly. Loud and laughing like the cold doesn’t bite. Stomping their boots clean, flashing rifles like badges, barking at each other across the lot. A pack. A threat. One with eyes thatlinger.
Two of them are standing near the pump, passing a cigarette between them while they talk about tags. One’s got a beard like a bear and eyes that track too slow. The other’s younger, sharper, with a cocky smile, camo jacket and a scar cutting through his eyebrow like he’s proud of it. He looks up. Right at me and smirks.
