Page 8 of Sweet Doe
The snow’s coming down heavier now, blanketing the windshield in a thick white sheet. The world outside is cold, silent, buried in winter. But in here?
She’s mine.
“Welcome home, little doe,” I murmur, my voice low, smooth like a secret I’ve been waiting too long to tell.
I watch her lashes flutter, slow and heavy, like she’s slipping in and out of awareness. Her lips are parted, but there’s no sound. No questions. Just that soft, confused breath.
She doesn’t need to ask where we are. She knows. She’s seen the trees, the isolation, the nothingness beyond us. There’s no one coming. No one to call.
This is it.
Our beginning.
I lean across the console, close enough to feel her exhale catch on my cheek. “You’re gonna love it here,” I whisper. “It’squiet. Safe. Just us. No lies. No noise. Just the truth, raw and fucked-up as it is.”
She blinks, slow. Glazed eyes meeting mine for half a second before dropping in defeat again. There’s fear in her body—tight and buzzing beneath the sedation—but I can see it: that flicker of awareness. That flicker ofme.
“You’re gonna fight,” I say softly, dragging the back of my hand down her cheek. “Of course you are. That’s what makes this fun. But in the end, you’ll see. You were always meant to be mine.”
She tries to shift, a weak protest murmuring from her lips, but it dies in her throat. Her skin’s pale in the glow of the dash lights, lips a little cracked from the cold, eyes glassy.
Still beautiful.
Still here, and all fuckingmine.
And that’s all I ever fucking needed.
She thinks I’m a monster, and she’s probably right. But she’s the fucking myth that made me.
Chapter Three
SLOAN
Prison.
The thought hammers through my skull as I stare out the frost-covered window at endless trees. Snow-laden pines stretch in every direction, their branches heavy with white, disappearing into a dark gray sky that looks like it's never seen sunlight. There are no paved roads out here. No power lines. No sign of civilization at all.
Just forest. Endless,suffocatingforest.
My breath fogs the glass as I lean closer, desperate to spot some landmark I can remember. Some sign of how we got here. But the drive is a fragmented blur of panic and forced unconsciousness. I remember being shoved into a black SUV, the leather seats cold against my bare legs. I remember trying to memorize turns, trying to count minutes, trying to recognize anything at all.
But every time I started to get my bearings, the world would go fuzzy around the edges. I’m fairly certain the bastard drugged me. Something in the Gatorade he forced me to drink, claiming I was dehydrated from our "activities." The taste was wrong, a bitter undertone, but what choice did I have? Comply or die. Iknew if he was going to kill me, it wouldn’t be with poison in a Gatorade bottle. He’s more theatrical than that.
So I drank, and the miles slipped away from me like sand through my fingers.
Now I'm here. Wherever the fuck here is.
The cabin is rustic but neatly-maintained, all exposed beams and natural wood that probably cost more than most people make in a year. Floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of my wooden prison, and under different circumstances, I might have called it beautiful. Peaceful, even.
I press my palms against the glass, feeling the cold seep through. How far did we drive? Two hours? Three? Time moves differently when you're drifting in and out of consciousness, fighting against whatever he put in that drink. I remember fragments—the hum of the SUV’s engine, snow falling heavier as we climbed higher into the mountains, his voice talking softly about things I couldn't quite process.
About how perfect this place is. How no one knows about it. How we'll have all the time in the world to get to know each other.
It all makes me too nauseous to think too hard about right now, especially after such a bumpy ride through the winding mountains.
If I run, where do I go? How do I find my way back to civilization through miles of wilderness I don't recognize? How do I survive in below-freezing temperatures with nothing but what I’m wearing? A torn fucking dress and tights.
The questions circle my mind as I scan the forest for any sign of life. But there's nothing. No smoke from distant chimneys. No trails cutting between the trees. No feasible way out.
