Hissing, I reached into my back pocket for my automatic knife. I flicked it open and held up the razor-sharp steel blade for Mac’s inspection. “Maybe I’ll cuff you. Stretch your arms over your head. Attach the cuffs to the headboard in a way that will let me flip you over. Face up, face down, whatever I like.”
Mac’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, as if the scene was playing out in her mind’s eye.
“I’ll cut your clothes from your body. Slice them into ribbons. Your pants. Your shirt. Your bra and panties. Lay you bare. Leave you helpless and vulnerable. Then I’ll drag the tip of my knife over your beautiful, unmarred skin. And I’ll mark you.”
Mac trembled in my arms.
“Won’t cut you. Not exactly. I know what I’m doing with a knife. Know how to raise welts without breaking the skin. Maybe I’ll carve my name across your tits or your back. Can’t promise it won’t hurt a little. I’d never harm you, Mac, but I will let you feel the bite of my blade.”
She twisted in my arms and looked me square in the face. Her chest rose and fell as she gasped for air. “Ripper! Holy shit.”
If she jerked, I wouldn’t risk cutting her with the business edge of my knife, so I trailed the dull side across her soft cheek, over her full lips, and down her slim neck. She swallowed as I traced the blade along her jugular. Frozen in place, she held her breath. Goosebumps prickled her arms.
“Ripper,” she pleaded.
I met her gaze and pulled the knife away. “You asking me to stop?”
After a moment, she shook her head, an admission that brought tears to her eyes. And there it was, the contradiction that had plagued Mac since we met. The internal paradox that made her doubt herself. Made her miserable. I folded the knife and laid it on the bed. “What’s the problem, darlin'? You want something you think you shouldn’t want?”
She nodded, color rising in her cheeks, even though she resolutely maintained eye contact. “When you talked about forcing me to kneel at your feet and about using your knife on me, I got so turned on that I just about blacked out. I’m an inconsistent mess. I want to be strong and weak at the same time.”
Why did Mac have to be so damned hard on herself?
“People are driven by conflicting impulses. As long as you step up when it counts—and you do—there’s nothing wrong with your fantasies. Think of it like a pressure valve that allows you to blow off steam. You’re not weak. You’re human.” I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, then cupped her nape. “And it means a lot that you trust me with your fantasies. You can trust me, Mac. I’ll take you to the edge and bring you back safe. Always.”
The tension, the bitter self-recrimination drained from her face, replaced by a slow smile. “I don’t have enough clothes with me for you to shred the ones I’m wearing, but do you think we could still play around with your knife?”
Surprised, I arched my brows, more than willing to indulge her. I slid my hand from her neck and wrapped it around her throat. Beneath my fingers, her pulse ratcheted up. “Ms. Dunwitty, I am at your service.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Bear
Two hours earlier
The key rattled in the lock. Dinner time was coming late tonight. I sat up straight, leaning against the wrought-iron headboard, and schooled my expression into a stoic mask. I didn’t want my posture or face to give away how tired and discouraged I was feeling. Hiding your misery from the enemy wasn’t much of an accomplishment, but I’d take any crumb of victory I could get. I wouldn’t give anything to the people who killed my family and took our ranch, not even the satisfaction of seeing my pain.
The door swung open and the pregnant woman walked in carrying a tray.
Months ago, when she first started bringing me my supper, she’d smiled and said hello. My mother raised me to be polite to women—especially women who were carrying a child—but the thought of responding in kind, smiling and saying hello back to her, got my goat. Not even my mama could expect me to be polite to a murdering Nazi.
The short man wearing a biker vest who always accompanied her—a squirrelly fellow who liked to wave around a gun—had shared my reluctance to make nice. His voice gruff, he’d ordered her to knock it off, said there was no point in pretending we were friends. Shit. What was the world coming to when I’d agree with a Nazi-loving son of a bitch on anything? The woman had pressed her lips together and held her tongue after that, scurrying in and out of the room without making eye contact.
Tonight, three people walked into the bedroom, the pregnant woman, the biker, and another young woman. Maybe she was the biker’s new girlfriend. She looked the type, with her skintight jeans and a skimpy top that did more to highlight her assets than conceal them. Her boobs were popping out of her red lace bra in a way that would make my mama tsk-tsk. She had to be a good twenty years younger than the man and way too pretty for the likes of him, but maybe it was slim pickings for young women in the new world. Or maybe she liked him. Maybe she was a true believer in the cause they were always yammering on about.
The pregnant woman set the tray on the nightstand. Looking at the plate of food, I sighed. Cold spaghetti. From the looks of it—some long pieces and some short ones—she’d cobbled together my dinner by scraping the leftovers off everybody’s plates. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. I hoped they brought supper to that poor soul Dwight and Darryl had hauled in the other night. I’d been sleeping like the dead when shouts in the hallway woke me up, followed by a thump when somebody struck my door and more shouts.
The unfamiliar young woman placed two water bottles next to the plate of spaghetti.
She looked over her shoulder at the biker. “Tuck, do you usually uncuff his hands so he can eat?” She spoke in a little girl, singsong voice that raised my hackles.
“Nah.” He scratched his belly. “He can manage just fine with the cuffs on.”
“I’m Mackenzie,” she said, turning back toward me. Startled, I raised my eyes to her face. “Mackenzie Kyla Dunwitty.” She emphasized her middle name. Her back to Libby and the biker, she widened her eyes.
I frowned, in no mood to play games with the biker’s girlfriend. Was she flirting with me, trying to get a rise out of her boyfriend? No thank you. The man was quick with his fists at the best of times. Trying to rile up that man? That was a dangerous game to play. She’d better figure that one out fast.
I ignored her and reached for my plate, balancing it with one hand on my bent knees so I could shovel food into my mouth with the other hand. I’d mastered the operation. It was undignified, but efficient, and that’s what counted. Eat. Keep my strength up. When the right opportunity presented itself, I’d be ready to make my move.
The right opportunity. I glanced back at the young woman. Maybe I’d been a mite hasty in rejecting her overtures. My lips curved in a slow smile, the same smile that used to melt the buckle bunnies who followed me around after a competition.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I tipped my head toward the water bottles she’d brought.
“No need to talk to him,” Tuck called. “Just give him the water and keep your mouth shut.”