Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(22)

I swallow, thinking that over. I can’t. That’s the simple fact. I won’t be able to, even if I can bring myself to do all the things they’re asking. Who could? That has to be a superpower reserved for gorgeous sex sirens with mystical ambrosia vaginas and charisma on par with Santa Claus.

But how can I leave?

I slept in an actual bed last night. They have real drinks, and I’m about to eat a proper meal. Made in a kitchen. Comforts I forced myself to forget about for years are now a very real possibility.

My mind flashes to the ease with which they handled the men who’d hunted me.

I wouldn’t have to watch over my shoulder constantly, could stop flinching at every broken twig, stop wondering if the animals are just a touch too quiet for safety.

I wouldn’t have to be lonely anymore.

A thick lump lodges in my throat. It’s so damn nice to have someone to talk to. Day after day, that was what threatened to pull me under. For someone who lived most of her life as a loner, it had stunned me how much I craved casual conversation. A passing touch. All those little things I always took for granted. Those things I left behind without a second thought.

Over the years, as the quiet grew deeper and colder, there were times I considered seeking out one of the packs of armed, careful men that occasionally prowled by. I was almost willing to take the chance that these ones were good and honest, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with that biting, wintery loneliness. If I’d seen any women among them, I probably would have taken the risk.

I was sorely tempted by a group of about fifty I saw in the city about a year after everything went down—children and men and women all banded together. They were casual. Barely armed. I followed them for a while, soaking in their affection for each other. They laughed. The kids played in the street as they walked. Men and women flirted.

But deep in my heart, I didn’t believe they would make it. They stood out too much. They were too slow. Too noisy.

They were prey.

Worse, they were stupid prey. And they were going to die.

So, in the end, alone and grief weary, I crawled back to my cave. For months afterward, stinging with loneliness, I cursed myself. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they were fine. Maybe I could have reasoned with them, showed them how to be careful.

Maybe I could still have tracked them down. I was sick and ashamed of myself.

But I never went after them.

The thought of returning to that quiet, hungry existence hollows my stomach. I can’t start over, not alone. Not again. Even having a home for a little while—until they tire of me—has to be better than going back to that, right? My body seems such a small price to pay for company. For safety. Especially if that is what they plan on doing to it.

I can always leave if it’s too much. If the loneliness ever seems like the better option, then I’ll take it.

But I have to give this a shot.

Straightening my shoulders, I finger-comb my hair again as best as possible and go in search of the kitchen.

Three wrong turns later, I finally find it. It’s on the ground floor—and it’s massive. Spacious and kitted out with every modern convenience, it’s a chef’s dream. I’ve always been more of a utility cooker, but even I start plotting what I might be able to make on that stove.

Lucky is sizzling baked beans in a pan and the fragrant smell of garlic and onion almost has me swooning. There’s a kettle heating on another burner beside it, and two mugs sit like little temptresses on the counter. He shoots me a dimpled grin and the sight of it tightens my throat.

Those dimples could do more damage to me than any one of their fancy rifles.

“A Lucky specialty,” he declares, and I could kiss him for not bringing up the porn show from earlier.

Wandering into the room, I admire the way the floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the apple tree and the dark, towering forest just beyond. But just to myself, I admit that the better view is behind me. I take a seat at the breakfast bar in front of Lucky, watching his forearms flex as he stirs the contents in the pan. With a wink, he goes to the fridge and pulls out a wedge of cheese, and he grates it over the steaming meal.

Sinful, decadent, it melts through the sauce like liquid gold.

My stomach growls a demand. Loudly.

“Ah, damn,” he curses, giving me a guilty look. It pulls the firm swells of his lips into an almost-pout that I have the insane urge to nibble on. “Should have done this first.”

He spins to the flick the burner off and pours steaming liquid from the kettle into the mugs. The scent of coffee floats through the room, and I close my eyes for a moment against a sinful rush of pleasure almost on par with my earlier orgasm.

Coffee. For real, actual coffee. I mean, it must be instant, but still.

I can’t help the smile that blooms across my face and, as Lucky catches sight of it, the worry that made little lines in his forehead eases.

A few minutes later, he sets the meal down in front of me.

Coffee and cheese. Maybe I’m wrong about all of it. Maybe I wasted away from sadness and exposure out in those woods, and I’ve somehow found my way to heaven.

“Don’t eat too fast,” he cautions firmly. “Your body won’t be used to it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, sure, now that’s a consideration.”

Lucky’s eyes lighten to sunny skies. “Always a consideration. We’re very considerate people.” The dimple flirts with his cheek again. “’Specially me.”