Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(33)

It’s like I’ve grown a new skin over these last few years—one thicker and steelier than I had before. Perhaps that old skin of mine is just too thin, too soft, to contain me now.

Can I force myself back into the person I was before?

Do I want to?

The thoughts are uncomfortable, but ultimately useless to me. I know what I signed up for, and my feelings don’t matter.

Survival does. And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I will have the chance to not be alone. I can give up my independence for that, I think.

I have to.

I can’t take another year by myself.

Eventually, I find a gentle rhythm to my days. I throw myself into the huge vegetable garden, enjoying the familiar task amid the upheaval of the last few weeks. I tend my now almost-healed wounds and play in the ridiculous kitchen. The decadence of my room hasn’t worn off, and I soak myself in scalding water each night, luxuriating in the soft soaps and scented oils.

And I suffer through my least favorite self-allocated task—washing and mending clothes. Today I decided to move a large tub near the apple tree so I could work outside. It’s a messy job, and I’m tired of cleaning suds from the laundry floor.

Instead, I’m outside and up to my elbows in soapy water as dusk descends into magenta and moonlight. Hazy stars tease twinkle-bright over the towering trees, and the temperature has dropped enough to lend a nip to the apple-scented breeze.

I’m hopeful Jaykob might be able to fix the broken washing machine Lucky mentioned soon—though the way Jaykob scowled when he saw me scrubbing clothes the other day didn’t exactly inspire hope that he’ll help me out. The memory of my awkward little wave and the abrupt way he stalked past me still makes me cringe.

With a stifled sigh, I pull the final item from the hamper—and blush when I realize it’s a pair of black boxer briefs.

I really need to stop doing that.

But though I try to lose myself in the task before me, unfamiliar tension is coiling tighter and tighter.

Today, my reprieve is over.

Dom and Beau arrived back about an hour ago. Lucky is cooking up a big venison dinner. No one has said so explicitly, but I know it’s time to work out the schedule.

I’ll have to sleep with one of them tonight.

God. Have I ever been so nervous? I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified. Or both. Or if maybe, somehow, I’m excited because I’m terrified. That thought I bury quickly because it’s too scandalous for me to contemplate.

And if the more I dwell on my nervousness and shame about what I’m about to do, the wetter and needier I become, well, I can ignore that too.

Pressing my hand to my stomach, I decide I need to put on my big girl panties—and while that might be easier if I currently owned any panties, I can’t procrastinate any longer.

I’ve already spent a frankly creepy amount of time on these boxer briefs.

Piling up the washing, I make my way inside quietly and try to convince myself that I’m not sneaking. But when I round the corner, I collide with Dom.

He catches my basket quickly, steadying me. I silently curse myself as my eyes fly to his, and I’m surprised that he looks as caught off guard as I am. He’s freshly showered, still damp and rosy from the heat. Then his gaze flickers over my wet shirt and muddy knees and whatever momentary boost of confidence I felt shrivels.

Then I notice the bruise shadowing his jaw, angry and a touch swollen.

“Are you okay? How did that—?”

“Dinner’s ready in ten minutes,” he says, cutting me off. “Get dressed.”

I swallow hard and nod once. I step around him and into the laundry room, not looking at him again. Jerk. God forbid I show a hint of concern.

Oddly, though, his tone knocks me back onto familiar ground. My grandmother would have given me the exact same distasteful look if she had seen me looking like this.

Some of my nervous-excited flutters have stilled, and when I’m safely closeted inside, I dump the basket and shove the wet clothes into the dryer. I don’t even sort them.

Dom can deal with lint balls for all I care.

Tears prick my eyes as I make my way to my room. Damn it. This is going to be a disaster. I’m not even naked yet and his disappointment is still enough to chill me to the core.

Then I see the clothes.

Spread across my bed are jeans, blouses, sweaters, activewear, loungewear, boots, and pretty dresses that I itch to slip into. I wonder if I could get away with wearing dresses like those while I’m here. It’s been years since I’ve been able to wear anything but the most practical clothing.

Sitting beside my new clothes, piles and piles of lacy, sinful lingerie beg for my attention.

I finger the edge of a satin lavender bra that has clasps around the throat with a touch of wonder. I’ve never worn lingerie like this in my life. Eyeing the tag, I realize that they even managed to get my sizes right. Not that I should be surprised. They certainly had an eyeful that first night.

Conscious of time, I speed through my shower routine, glad I washed my hair earlier. Confronted again by the multitude of underwear, I pluck the least outrageous set from the pile. They’re a shimmery, metallic cream, silky soft and cut low. See-through lace peekaboos my bare skin on either hip.

The bra has a simple hooked front clasp that looks like a shining s, and it isn’t until I fasten the clasp that I realize exactly how dizzyingly high it pushes up my breasts.