I’m not certain if his affirmation gives me relief or just heartburn.
It can’t be drugs then. Multiple people don’t just share the same delusion, right? I bite back a snort at that stupid thought. There are a shit ton of religions and other questionable groups that believe all kinds of things. Crazy can most definitely be co-opted.
“Red cloaks?” I continue hesitantly, and I don’t know if I want him to agree or look at me like I’m the wacko.
“Yeah, but I’d really feel better if you’d let me sit down and explain it all,” he counters when I drop my gaze and try not to lose my shit.
What kind of person sets out innocent women and has wolves hunt them?
A brand-new toothbrush, still in the box, appears just below my chin, and I glance up at Ruger, who’s holding it out with a friendly, almost painfully hopeful expression. I slide it wordlessly from his grip, very careful not to touch his skin. I don’t really give a shit if my teeth are clean when I burst out of this house and drive like a madwoman for the horizon. But I give him a placating smile of thanks as if he’s being thoughtful.
At that same moment, Perth comes back into the room with five pairs of pants dangling from his arms. “I can’t tell which of these is smallest, so—”
He holds his arms out like garment racks, and I reach forward to pluck a pair of drawstring pants from the pile.
“Thank you,” I offer like the good little kidnap victim I am.
He nods and for a split second, I’m back in the content cloudy fog I woke in, nothing else visible but those amber eyes and the freckles surrounding them. There’s this strange pull coming from him. I don’t know what it is, but there’s no point looking closer because I need to leave.
“Bathroom’s just there.” Ruger’s big arm swivels to point across the room, and I break away from the trance Perth seems to have put me under.
Scurrying toward the bathroom, I close the door and lean against it like it’s the only thing still keeping me on my feet.
“Meet us in the kitchen when you’re done,” Ruger calls through the closed door. “Go left at the bottom of the stairs. You’ve got to be hungry. We’ll feed you and then we can talk, okay?”
“Okay,” I squeakily lie, turning and catching my wild gaze in the mirror. Heavy footsteps move away from the door, and I stand there staring at myself as silence blankets the room.
Running my hand over my forehead, I study my reflection. I was bleeding last night, but just like with my leg, there isn’t the faintest hint of any kind of injury.
I stride closer to the vanity and lean over the white and gray marble counter. Earnestly, I examine my eyes. My pupils aren’t blown, the blue rings of my irises are clearly visible, so that’s a plus. I suspect the flush in my cheeks is hot man related and not the result of some sort of substance working its way out of my system. My long deep brown hair is a tousled mess, and I don’t know if it’s from sleep or something else.
Actually, the one thing those guys didn’t say is that we slept together. In my freak out about all the other stuff, I forgot to ask. I don’t think we did, but I’m not sure, and that bugs me, though not in the way it should.
I spent a night in bed with two crazy hot—no, hot crazy—men, and no sex ensued? Am I relieved or insulted?
“What in the actual fuck is wrong with you?” I ask my reflection. The bitch doesn’t answer.
Pulling up the massive black shirt I’m draped in, I inspect my ribs and the rest of my body. There’s no evidence of the attack in the parking lot or any of the wild things I remember from the forest. The way Perth and Ruger were talking made it seem like my memories were as real as I thought they were.
Does their cult train giant wolves to hunt people in the woods?
It sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to explain everything.
You don’t know a lot of things, girl, my brain snarks at me. As if I need that kind of attitude piled on top of this shit-show of a morning.
I quickly clean up, toss on the sweats Perth gave me, and try to figure out what the hell I should do. I know I said I’d hear them out…but I should just run. Right?
Or should I listen? They technically haven’t done anything bad to me since I woke up. They haven’t hurt me or threatened me in any way.
Noah, don’t be a dumbass, I scold myself. I’m in a strange house with strange men, and I need to get the fuck out of here ASAP.
It doesn’t matter how enjoyable they are to look at, I don’t owe them shit. Least of all, any more of my time after everything that’s happened. For all I know, they could have attacked me at my car.
Cracking the bathroom door, I listen for a hint that someone is nearby. When no one pops out to tackle and tie me to the bed, I tiptoe across the floor and out into a wide hallway. I spot a wide set of stairs at the end of the hall and carefully slip down them, my socks helping me to move almost silently.
Maybe I can make it outside without them noticing. But then what?
I pause on a landing to peer out a tall window across from me. Warm morning sunshine filters in, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to make me feel better. Just as I’d feared, I don’t see the cute little rooftops of the town anywhere, only a sea of treetops.
Shit.
This house is in some remote location, and the chances of running outside and finding someone to help me are probably slim to none. My stomach sinks when I realize there’s no chance that my Bronco is nearby either.
Fuck.
What the hell do you do when you’re trapped in the middle of nowhere with two insane but very friendly and obliging men? This resembles the start of a Lifetime movie a little too much for my liking.
My chest tightens and I have to remind myself that I’ve lived through things I never thought I could before. Mom’s death, dozens of foster homes, shit jobs, and a creeper landlord… I can do this. I take a deep breath and try to mentally find some grit before sneaking down the rest of the stairs.
Perth’s and Ruger’s voices drift out from the kitchen. Their conversation is muffled but it sounds a little heated. I reach the ground floor without them noticing and stare in awe for a moment before I get my shit together and focus.
Damn. Freakish cult members are clearly well paid.
I try to look beyond the two-story river stone fireplace, the wall of sliders that lead to a forest out back, and the lush but masculine furnishings. This place looks like it’s ready to be photographed for some editorial about rich bachelors with exquisite taste.
The kitchen where Ruger and Perth said they’d be waiting for me is around a corner off to my left. But to my right, I notice a tidy little mudroom with a door that I hope leads to a garage. Next to that door—jackpot!—is a metal strip studded with a row of hooks. Keys and fobs dangle from them.