The only problem was—well, I actually had two problems with option two.
Problem one was, I didn’t think I could physically touch that man without wanting to stab him ninety-nine times with my pointy best friend. I had so much rage inside. So much injustice that I trembled with fury every time I felt him moving around, thanks to the link between us. The feathering around my ankle, the clinking of the chain, all had the power to boil my blood.
I’d managed to go through life completely oblivious to true anger. Sure, I’d had the odd explosion of words, the gossip sessions with girlfriends at school about some moronic teacher or idiot student, and I might have had a few run-ins with my parents and brother—as all people did.
But I’d never stewed in passionate vehemence before.
He’d done that to me.
He’d turned my happy little heart into one dripping with murderous contempt.
I was lucky, I supposed, that I’d turned to anger instead of self-pity. It was exhausting and maddening, and I wished I could remember how to stop being so damn mad and find calm, but now?
Ooooh, now, I was passed a pep talk and plotting.
My hand curled around my pen, wishing it was Kas’s neck. I honestly couldn’t get rid of the fizzing fury in my blood. I needed to hit him to get it out. I physically needed to mark him so he knew just how angry I was. How betrayed.
And that was the crux of my second problem with option two.
That plan all hinged on betrayal.
If I swallowed the rage inside me—which I didn’t even think was humanly possible at this point—and returned to his bed, I would have to hide this hate inside me. I would have to touch him gently, speak kindly, and do the opposite of everything I felt.
I’d already been nice to him.
I’d already attempted to use decency to win him over.
And look where that got me?
Around and around in circles. A month since I’d arrived. A month! Four long weeks since my family had heard from me. If I chose option two, I would betray not just myself but them too. I would be swallowing every nasty word he deserved and every lesson he needed to hear to be normal.
And...the worst part of option two, I wouldn’t just be betraying a man into believing I wanted him when nothing could be further from the truth, but I’d also run the risk of betraying everything I stood for.
I’d shown my heart was already weak where he was concerned. My body was already confused between passion and resentment.
Could I trust myself?
Can I honestly believe I won’t fall into the same trap and start wanting him in return?
I’d dreamed of him.
I’d dreamed of his tongue in my mouth and his fingers between my legs. I’d dreamed of us rocking together, straining together, coming—
“Argh!” I grabbed another piece of paper, just because it was blank and staring at me with far too many nasty possibilities, and tore it into ribbons.
And the worst part? Those dreams had been good. Better than good. Downright erotic, leaving me frustrated and wet and—
“We have a finite amount of supplies, Gemma Ashford. You should be more careful about not wasting them.”
My head snapped up. “You!”
He nodded, stepping into the games room with bare feet and long, wild hair. Unlike the past week when we’d seen glimpses of each other but no more, avoiding each other like silent uncivilized flatmates, he’d dressed.
His naked chest and muscular legs were now hidden beneath a black T-shirt and jeans.
Jeans?
Why did such an innocuous piece of clothing look so...wrong on him. No, not wrong. Far, far too good. He filled them out. His thighs pressed against blue denim, his knees indenting the dense fabric as he strode slowly toward me. The chain, buckled around his waist, slinked out beneath the hem of his T-shirt.
Which guest’s wardrobe had he raided to find such domesticated, normal clothes? And just how long would they last before the jeans were torn and the T-shirt was in shreds like the slacks and shirt from before?
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, standing before me with his legs braced and toes digging into the unlucky bear skin.
My eyes narrowed. “How could I possibly tell? You have the facial hair of that dead bear you’re standing on.”
His head cocked. “You’re saying I need to shave?”
“I don’t care what you need.” Bringing my knees up where I sat on the leather button couch, I huddled around my notepad and pretended to write something highly important. “Leave me alone.”
I flinched as the chain between us clinked softly. He didn’t speak as he sat beside me, reclining with his good arm spread over the back of the couch, his fingertips unnervingly close to my shoulder.
Goosebumps scurried over my back and down my legs.
Why?
Why must he have this effect on me?
“Writing a grocery list?” He licked his lips, leaving a glisten behind. For a week, we’d avoided each other, and in that week, he’d steadily gotten better. I’d heard him snarling in his dreams and woken to my ankle yanking me out of the blanket cocoon I’d made in the conservatory as he’d suffered whatever nightmares still plagued him, but during the day, he honored what he’d told me.
He needed to heal, and I needed time to let my rage fade.
The only thing was, he seemed to be healing, but my rage didn’t seem to be fading.
The color in his cheeks showed he’d been outside yesterday. He hadn’t been doing any gardening or other labor—I would’ve felt the tension on the chain if we strayed too far apart—but I did think his headaches were getting more manageable. At least enough for him to become fixated on harvesting and bunkering down for a winter I couldn’t fathom.
It was still scorching outside.
Sure, the grass had gone dry after being drenched from the storm a few weeks ago, and the vegetables looked unhappy with wilting leaves and paling colors. And if I dared to look past the glittering blue of the river up the cliff face to the trees with their crisscross ceiling of branches, I’d confess green now interspersed with orange and brown.
Autumn was only a few days away.
Unfortunately, the russet colors and bracken-breezes seemed to have triggered an even deeper urgency in the feral man I lived with. Each time he’d left a meal for me, consisting of whatever vegetable he’d deemed worthy of eating that night, the aura of the house was famine. The two nights he’d actually provided a few strips of smoked meat had felt as if he was sharing something vitally precious with someone he couldn’t stand.
When we’d bump into each other in the foyer or skirted around each other as we drifted from room to silent room, I hadn’t let myself see just how much his stare lingered after me. How he’d pause and almost seemed as if he wanted to talk to me. To begin a conversation, to cast aside our animosity, to find a way to bridge what he’d destroyed.
I hadn’t permitted that.
I hadn’t granted a single word since our argument. For all intents, I’d been lazy. I hadn’t lifted a finger to clean, care, or cook. I definitely hadn’t bothered cooking.
I dare not go back outside and select anything from his veggie patch. Hell no. I’d learned that lesson, thank you very much. Occasionally, I’d help myself to a chocolate bar and finished the muesli bar stash in my bag (stupidly eating my rations if I ever did manage to escape), but I was under no illusions that was the extent of my diet if he hadn’t chosen to share.