So instead, I close my eyes and pretend his body belongs to another. That I’m receiving warmth from a man who is as pure as freshly fallen snow.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
The voice is wrong but the sentiment comforts me.
I love you too, War.
I’m not sure if the words are spoken aloud or in my head, but soon I’m drifting off to a place where I’m free. Free to love and kiss and adore a complicated man.
At peace with War.
“What are you doing?” I ask, sucking in a gasp of air as his finger dances along my shoulder blade, pushing my hair away in a gentle move.
War smiles. I don’t have to see it because I feel it. And I smile too.
“Counting your freckles. There are so many,” he says in a quiet, almost shy tone.
I laugh and turn to look at him over my shoulder. He’s propped up on one elbow and inspecting me as if he’s trying to memorize every single square inch of my flesh. Everything about him is beautiful. The way his dark blue eyes twinkle when he’s counting. How his full lips move in just the slightest way. And the way his brown hair hangs over his right eyebrow in a messy yet sexy way.
“How many are there?”
“Four hundred and thirteen,” he tells me. His voice is resolute. Convinced. Completely sure. “So far.”
Closing my eyes, I bask in his gentle touch. He calms me just as much as I seem to calm him. The world is no longer a threatening place when we’re together like this. We’re in our own world—one which is safe and filled with love.
As I drift off to sleep, he counts my freckles while I count every happy beat of my own heart.
Birds chirping.
They don’t sound like the seagulls I’m used to waking up to.
Maybe they’re sick.
My body is heavy and sore to the point that I almost feel drugged. I can’t even manage to get my eyelids to lift.
Still too exhausted to face the day, I bury my face against the warm, firm chest in front of me and hug him closer to me. War always warms me. All the way down to the innermost parts of me. For some reason, I’m incredibly achy today and don’t want to move.
Perhaps it’s me that’s sick, not the birds.
I think about how odd my body has been. The nausea. The sore breasts. The missed period. I’m nervous to bring it up to him, yet excitement threads through me. We’ve created something from our love. I’m certain there’s a little love bud growing inside of me.
A smile graces my lips and I press a soft kiss to his chest. I slide my palm down along his lower abdomen until I’m gripping his hardened cock between us. His soft breaths tell me he’s still asleep and I almost giggle aloud, knowing I’m about to wake him up.
I crack open an eye and tilt my head to look up at him.
My world spins and darkness swarms in like a horde of angry bees.
Not soft, peaceful features and a familiar scar.
Instead, dark, hard lines and edges. No scar.
His hot dick in my hand feels like an abomination and I jerk my hand from it as if it were a snake filled with poisonous venom. Short, choppy breaths rush from me as I inch myself away from the evil that lies before me.
The memories come crashing down around me. War. The gunshot. The blood. Bile rises in my throat and a scream remains lodged there. Sunshine from the window blankets us but it’s a farce.
I’m not in a cozy cabin, happily whisked away with my lover.
I’m in hell with the devil. I’m his prisoner.
But I’m not bound.
A thrill kick starts my dead heart to life. I slip out from under Gabe’s heavy arm. His soft snores an indication that he’s still deep in sleep.
This is my moment.
This is my opportunity.
Probably one of the few I’ll get.
I slip off the bed and nearly collapse. My legs are aching and shaky but I don’t let them deter me in my pursuit for escape. Quickly, I snatch up his discarded shirt and yank it over me. Since Gabe is much taller than me, the shirt hits me mid-thigh, providing enough coverage for me to get the hell out of here.
The floorboard creaks beneath my feet and I jerk my gaze over to Gabe. No change in his movement. I have to go. Now!
On tiptoes, I hurry out of the bedroom and down the hallway toward the front door. It isn’t locked—why would it be? Nobody would burst through the devil’s front door on their own accord. I wrench it open as quietly as I can.
Squeeeeeak!
The door protests when I open it and it’s loud. There’s no turning back now. I have to go.
I push through it and stride down the steps. The memory of a few months before—him chasing me through the woods—is at the forefront in my mind. If anything, it only spurs me to go faster. With long strides, I ignore the bite of the gravel driveway on my bare feet as I put as much distance as I can between me and that godforsaken cabin.