Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(6)

M y three rescuers are waiting for me, I know, but I need a minute before I face the destruction in the clearing. My freedom.

The ‘what’s next’ problem. There are too many things to think about and I just . . . don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to worry. Right now, I just want to be held.

As though sensing my thoughts, Beau doesn’t set me down.

“Is she hurt?” Lucky sounds alarmed.

Dom stalks toward the viscera in the clearing. “She’s fine. Don’t know why she’s crying; we just solved all her problems for her.”

His displeasure cuts through my moment of self-pity. I raise my head, but Beau’s arms just tighten.

“Fuck off, Dom,” Beau says mildly. “She’s been through a lot.”

The larger man crosses his arms. I try not to notice the way it pulls his V-neck tight over his broad chest.

“We can’t bring her back,” he says, voice tight. “She’s a deadweight.”

“Doesn’t seem like she weighs much to me. Hey, Beau, let me try!” Lucky tugs at my blouse.

I shake my head, like that might clear it. What am I doing? The frantic panic is fading, but a new uneasiness is settling in.

What do these men want with me? Bring me back? Back where?

When I shift back from Beau, he reluctantly sets me down. Tender on my foot, I turn to face the two other men and immediately wish I hadn’t. Dead bodies are strewn around the clearing, fallen in awkward, final positions. Blood and chunky body matter coat the grass and the smell of charred flesh wafts to me. I’ve seen some terrible things over the last four years, but this is among the worst.

Dom bends down to examine the partially dismembered hand of one of the hunters; it’s branded with a tattoo of a coiled snake. He moves and looks at another with the same symbol.

For a moment, I’m worried I’ll lose my stomach—not that there’s much to lose—and, as he straightens to look back at me, Dom’s bored expression tells me he’s expecting it. That alone is enough to make me swallow hard and look away.

“I . . . ” I take a deep breath, trying to summon some of my old poise. Once upon a time, I was known for my manners.

“Thank you. I appreciate your help but there’s no need to go to any further trouble on my behalf. I’ll just . . . I’ll leave you to it.”

Beau’s face grows darker by the word, making me falter as I turn to leave.

Lucky shakes his head, his brow puckering in concern. “We didn’t get them all, sweetheart. The rest ran off when they realized they’d lost half their number. It’s not safe. You should come with us.”

Lucky seems younger than the other two, closer to me in age than Dom and Beau, who I’d guess to be in their early thirties.

But despite the lightness in his demeanor, that teasing voice still has a bossiness to it I’m not sure I appreciate.

A muscle ticks in Dom’s jaw. “Goddamn it, Lucky. This won’t work. We all pull our weight, that’s the rule. She can’t even take care of herself.”

For the first time, I see discomfort in him. In another man, I’d call it panic.

Beau snorts. “’Course she can. She’ll do her part.”

The confident implication in his voice has my stomach flipping and dropping all at once. Are they arguing over whether to keep me?

One look at Beau’s expression tells me that my suspicions are correct. And Dom . . . well, it’s clear Dom doesn’t want me.

He couldn’t look more disgusted by me if he tried.

Not that it matters, I don’t want to go with them anyway. Of course I don’t. I really, truly don’t. This was a fluke. One slip in four years. I’ll just be more careful next time. I don’t need them at all. I don’t need anyone.

So why does it sting so much? a voice taunts, one I thought I’d banished years ago. The only woman within who knows how many miles and you’re still not good enough.

I cringe.

No. I need to leave. These men might not have thrown me on the ground and ravished me, but to have survived this long, they’re surely not so different from the men I’ve been running from. Right? None of them, not even jaunty-whistling Lucky, have spared more than a glance at the body pieces that splatter the clearing like a Jackson Pollock painting.

But . . .

Beau’s gentle touch as he tended my foot flashes into my mind. The way he cradled me against his chest as I cried.

My emotions are smattered and smeared, my thoughts a jumble.

“She’ll do her part,” Beau repeats.

“This isn’t necessary,” I interject, banishing my internal chaos and forcing librarian sternness into my tone. “I can take it from here. Truly.”

Can I, though? I’ve been running for so long, I don’t even know where I am anymore, let alone how to reach the nearest town to resupply. I keep my face composed, but the thought of starting again, by myself, from scratch, with nothing but the knife at my belt and the clothes on my back, is not a pleasant one.

Lucky seems to sense my doubt and moves closer, slinging an arm around my shoulders conspiratorially and ticking off his fingers one by one. “We have showers and spare beds. Proper cooking equipment. The place is completely hidden, very high-tech, so it’s secure against assho—” He coughs. “Uh, charm-challenged folks like your friends here. There’s also no chance of a drone spotting us, on the off chance one happens to pop up again. We have clothes, food. I could go on.”