There’s no hesitation. He drops the satchels to the rug where they thud at my heels, then rushes to the open lounge. He draws the thick, heavy curtains over the window before he’s rushing to the opposite open-plan kitchen and pulling down the shutters, then tugging the curtains in place.

  The wide space is submerged in only orange-red light from the torch.

  As Spike wanders back into the lounge, travelling his gaze around, the warrior stalks over to the fireplace, dragging me alongside him. He tosses the torch into the fireplace—my heart skips a beat and it’s all I can do to fight the smile daring to creep onto my face—then unfastens my rope from his belt.

  With a curt gesture to Spike, he summons the mule over to us. My once-skipping heart plummets to my churning gut as soon as I realise what the fae is doing ... Fastening my rope to Spike’s. Then he ties us to the pillars at the archway between the kitchen and lounge, keeping us secure—keeping us from running should we be foolish enough to think we have the chance.

  Still, the disappointment of being fastened to Spike is quick to fade as I lean against the column. I start to slide my back down it, dropping to the floor, and a pained sigh escapes me. Every ache and muscle in my body suddenly relaxes, and it brings an addictive blend of pleasure and pain.

  The fae blinks, watching me, before a frown crinkles his arched eyebrows. The corner of his peach mouth tilts down for a beat, then he’s turning his back on us and stalking through the house to the staircase. He takes the steps two at a time with his long, muscular legs.

  When he’s out of sight, Spike and I are struck with the same idea. Instantly, we both scoot around the pillar, aiming our bodies at the fireplace. The hearth is alive with flames now. Fire caught, just as it does in villages, and now a roaring fire is quick to warm us.

  Most of the ‘dark day’, warmth is in the air. But then comes the ‘dark night’ and it brings chilly breezes and prickled skin with it. So I’m cold to the bone, and this fire is a blessing in more ways than one.

  It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed a fire. Seen plenty, of course. Watched them burn village after village, spread through cars and towns, stuck on the top of torches. But it’s been well over a year since I’ve actually sat near a fire and felt that stinging heat burn my skin—and it’s fucking bliss.

  Some might even say it was worth surviving just to experience this moment one last time.

  Not like we could have lit ourselves many fires out there in the dark. We used torches to guide our way when we could, or gas cooktops (that did little for warmth), but actual fires?

  Not a chance.

  That’s a signal to others that we are there—smoke, light, flames; all of it could have led anyone right to us. And as we learned as a group, no stranger is a friend. All are foes. And it’s a better risk of hypothermia than meeting unfriendlies.

  There’s something soothing about the fire—and the absence of the dark fae who disappeared upstairs. The hot burn on my cheeks has my lashes fluttering and my head lolling back against the hard pillar. Not exactly the most comfortable position there is, but it’s still enough to lull me into a light sleep.

  My rest is disturbed after a few minutes or a full hour—it was one of those sleeps, where it’s just impossible to tell how much time has passed. But I do know what wakes me—

  The heart-fluttering sound of running water. Tap water. Bath water.

  Coming from upstairs, too. So the dark fae must suffer the same wishes as I do, to bathe in warm water and let the heat heal my tight muscles.

  Lucky bastard. Evil bastard, I correct.

  My lashes flutter as a yawn starts to rise up me, all the way from my belly to my jaw. I arch my back (crackles rain down it) and let my yawn loose.

  The sound stirs Spike who, apparently, was also sleeping.

  I turn onto my side, my back to him, wishing for slumber to find me once again. But I don’t get the chance to slip back into that place of utter relaxation because something brushes over the warm skin of my thigh.

  Spider!

  I jolt upright, my wide, terrified gaze cutting down to my leg, just below the hemline of my dress. But ... that’s no spider slinking over my skin. It’s fingers.

  I jerk back my leg and, in a blink, I’ve swivelled around to face Spike.

  He gives me a sheepish look. “When will either of us get the chance again?” he tries to reason, but it only lifts rage to my heart and grips it in flames of its own.

  I rip the strip from my mouth. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I seethe.

  He sighs. “Come on,” he croons. “It’s not like we know we’ll both survive this.”

  Then he does it.

  He reaches out for my leg, his fingertips disappearing under the hem, and I react the best way I know how.

  Both of my boots come flying out. And they both crack him hard on the face. I see the spray of blood before I hear the crunch of bone. The force of the kicks send him flying back, as far as his rope will allow.

  I catch a fleeting glimpse of his face as he falls back. His nose is one smooshed, bloody mess and I know I’ve broken it. Not sorry.

  Smacking down, he goes limp on the floorboards, his eyes fluttering for a beat before they shut entirely. He’s been knocked out, and I hope he stays that way.

  Good thing I know how to handle myself. All those years at a co-ed boarding school will instil those skills in just about anyone.

  I knew it in my gut that I was right about him.

  Who does that anymore? I mean, I can’t guess the year we’re in now, but the last one we left the world in, it was made pretty damn clear not to touch women without their consent. How hard is that to get through even the thickest of skulls?

  I manage it every day of my life just fine.

  I push out a huff, then turn to lean back against the pillar. At least now I have more space to stretch out (within the confines of the rope, of course).

  And without the dark fae warrior and Spike around to prickle me with fear, I find that I sleep easily and deeply.

  *

  Heat burns my cheeks.

  I flick my gaze to the floor as the warrior comes down the stairs wearing nothing but a black towel fastened low on his hips. His hips are widely built with muscle that the towel looks just about ready to slip off him and land on the hard oak steps.

  Listening to the soft—almost inaudible—sound of his bare feet pad against the steps, I keep my gaze down on the toggle-rug in front of me.

  Fear swells up in my throat; I swallow it back down. But that doesn't stop the panic from lifting up to envelope my chest.

  He’s at the bottom of the staircase now, turning into the open plan living space, and in mere heartbeats, he’s going to see what I’ve done. His sharp eyes won’t miss the knocked-out and bloody-faced Spike crumpled on the floor like a discarded, wrinkled ball of paper.

  The fae moves silently now, even-footed and balanced. Still, his giveaway is the creak of a floorboard as he slips into the lounge.

  My lips thin on the choppy breaths that threaten to break out of me.

  Don’t look up, don't look up.

  If I don’t look, he doesn’t exist, and I won’t face any punishment for attacking his other prisoner...right?

  No such luck.

  My whole body cringes as tanned legs step into my line of sight.

  A frown pinches my brow at just how hairless his muscular legs are—as though every whisper of hair has been plucked out from his skin. But of course, I doubt a warrior like himself worries too much about body-hair grooming. He worries about how much blood he can shed in a day.

  Reluctance bites at me as I lift my gaze up, along his damp, glistening body. I pass over the black fluffy towel, barely cinched at his hips, then up along his rippled chest where droplets of water drizzle over the defined lines—my cheeks grow hotter—to his stony face.

  He stares down at me with total tedium in his near-black eyes. Those flecks of amber refuse to dance in the firelight coming from the hearth.

  In his arm, he holds a bundle of leather armour against his injured side, so I can’t see how well he’s healed since the black powder back in the shed. But since he didn't spare any of that powder on his bullet wounds and they are vanished into kisses of purple bruises, I assume he’s about healed now.

  With a slight, nearly indecipherable shake of his head, he turns his muscular back on me and tosses his armour onto the leather couch. The landing topples over a throw-cushion.

  He makes his way to the fire—and just stands there. He lets the heat dry him off; no use for a towel, I guess, other than to shield himself from me.

  Are there customs like that in his world? Not to expose oneself when a woman is present, even if that woman is human?

  The thought baffles me. All the possibilities and chances of what their cultures are like. I can barely understand some of those in my own world (well, the lost one), never mind from a different world altogether.

  Keeping his scarred, glittering back to me, the warrior cuts into my thoughts as he stares into the fire and asks in a deep, growly voice, “Why?”

  I blink, tearing my gaze from the dimples at the small of his back.

  Why?

  Why what?

  It takes me a moment to realise what he means—Spike, unconsciousness, face covered in blood, a definitely broken nose.

  Oh. That.

  “He touched me,” is all I say with a shrug that springs aches all over my shoulders and up my neck. I stretch out my back in response.

  Silence comes. Maybe he’s surprised that someone like me can stick up for herself; someone who vomits at the smell of charred skin and spews when cleaning bullet wounds, but has no problem breaking noses.

  I learned my fighting, defensive skills at boarding school. Too many rich boys thinking they can get what they want and mummy and daddy will cover it up.

  The only time I ever froze was with him—the warrior, when he cut open my bodice and pulled down my bra. That was terror of the iciest kind. That was a bone-deep, gut-churning fear of him and what he is, and knowing that I couldn’t fight my way out of it if that’s what he intended on doing.

  Lucky me, he wants no such thing.

  But if he’s confused about my swinging violence and aversion, he best join the club. Not many people understand me. I have a hard enough time doing that myself. All I’ve come to recognise is that I’m a bit of a contradiction. But aren’t we all in some way or another?

  The fae has no answer. He continues watching the flames for a while, long after he’s dry. And, Mother Earth help me, I can’t not watch him.

  Though the dark fae do not come from Earth, there is undeniably something earthly about them. Or about this one at least.

  Those blackened ribbed scars give me a tingling feeling that I only get when I hold a new, fresh crystal in my palm. It shudders me with the power of nature and the earth. His skin is pulled so tight over his muscles that it almost seems as though he was born to look this way, born to become what he is—a warrior of the world, perhaps.

  My mind is wandering to dangerous, ridiculous places. I stamp it out, fast.

  Finally, he pulls away from the fire, and that helps my thoughts shift back to reality. But then he tugs the towel with the faintest of touches and it falls to the floor. He steps over it for his armour.

  I should look away. But I have to see that bomb-wound.

  I scan his side as he reaches for his leather trousers, and all I can see is the faintest whisper of a line. Not even a scar to be left behind—that line will probably heal too.

  Unashamedly, I watch him tug on his armour pants, and I note with hot cheeks that he has a very nice bum. Really, is it all the hard training and muscle work to become a warrior that makes them all look as though they’ve been carved from marble? Or are they just … that way naturally?

  Wearing only the trousers, he leaves the weapons belt, boots, and strappy chest armour on the couch when he turns to me.

  In two strides, he’s standing in front of me. I lean back as he reaches for my bound wrists. Gentler this time, he unravels the bindings until they ribbon off my skin.

  Freed, I rub my bruises and wince.

  Is he going to let me bathe?

  Hope rises up in my chest—and it’s quickly killed.

  “Prepare meals,” he commands, his voice a low growl.

  My brows knit together. With a slanted mouth, I sputter, “You—you want me to ... cook?”

  Feminist rage swirls around me like a tornado out of nowhere.

  “I’m not your housewife,” I snarl at him with bravery fuelled solely by anger.

  He cuts his gaze to the knocked-out Spike before sliding his eyes back to me, his lashes low.

  “Your gender is unimportant to me,” he tells me darkly. “But the moment you stop being useful is the moment I kill you.” Slowly, he crouches down in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. He leans in closer, shadows dancing over his dangerous-looking face. “Unlike my brethren, I see little advantage in saving your kind.”

  I pale, suddenly all too aware of the complete indifference he has towards us shifting into something worse—disdain.

  Uncomfortable, I shift against the pillar. I look up at him from beneath my lashes and, when I ask, my voice is small; “Can I use the toilet first?”

  He has little choice—it’s either that or I’ll go all over this floor.

  18

  I’m not exactly bursting for the loo, but I do have to go—and there’s really only so long I can hold that off for.

  So when the warrior takes me upstairs to the bathroom (connected to the toilet and bidet) and he just... stands there at the door, I’m floored.

  Cheeks getting hotter, I hover by the toilet in the corner of the tiled bathroom and blink at him. Like, get lost, all right? This shit is private!

  He stares back at me and, in answer to my blank look, he folds his bare arms over his chest, then leans against the doorframe.

  Flames roar up my hot-red face. Can’t help but wiggle my hips a little, as though it will somehow help to keep everything in. But it’s one of those cases where you get close to a toilet, and suddenly you just can’t hold it anymore.

  “Close the door,” I murmur, doing my little shimmy dance.

  A half-smile twists his mouth. He steps into the large bathroom then—kicks his foot back, slamming the door shut behind him. In his hand, he holds the lantern that he fished out of his satchel; it’s pearlescent white flame lights up the bathroom like a ghost.

  A flurry of annoyance tickles my chest.

  I inhale deeply through my flaring nostrils.

  “I need to be alone,” I try again, lowering my gaze to the white-grouted tiles. This place was well cared for before the end. Maybe even after it, since it still seems to be in sharp shape, and there’s little dust coating the tiles.

  “I provide what you need,” he warns, his tone dark enough to draw in my reluctant gaze. “Anything else is a luxury. I would deny you even this,” he adds, lowering his long, thick lashes and tilting his chin down, “if the smell would not bother me.”

  Ok, I have a little tantrum of sorts. I hum something pitched and annoyed as I jump and shudder my body. Every muscle is bolted to my bones, as though if I relax just a tad, I’ll wet myself. Funny how the urge turns so urgent the closer to a toilet I am.

  Can’t be helped. I really need to fucking go now. What’s worse? Doing it in front of him or in my dress downstairs?

  I know the better option is this one. So, with a huff, I reach under my dress, roll down my undies, and plonk down on the toilet seat.

  Then performance-anxiety hits me, hard.

  I look up at the ceiling, glance at the tub in the middle of the bathroom, assess the copper taps in the round sink. Nothing happens; my body, no matter how much it needs to, refuses me.

  “Can you at least turn around?” I ask, cutting my gaze to him.

  He wears an amused smirk on his face; a crack in the stone mask he normally wears. But at least he grants me this. He turns around and leans against the wall, a breath’s touch away from the door.

  With his back to me, I lean over to the sink and turn on the tap. The rush of water helps and he doesn’t turn to berate me for it.

  It flows easier now.

  One of the best purposes of a dress. In a group, I could just squat down in the shadows and darkness and do my business.

  Once I’m finished up, I flush then shift onto the bidet. Oh how I miss running water. And the tub—the tub!—is full of warm water. I can feel the gentle tendrils of heat roll out from the murky soap-filmed surface.

  Eyeing the tub, I wash my hands in the sink with a worn-down hunk of soap. Then I snatch up some mouthwash, and I’m generous with the amount I’m pouring into my mouth. In my bag, I have a toothbrush and some paste, and every day (or I guess day, at least) I use them on my teeth. Even as a captive, I brush my teeth as we walk the darkness, and the fae beast hasn’t cut me down for it yet.

  But there’s something about mouthwash…

  The way I think of it is the difference between a warm cloth to wash your body versus having a proper bath.

  So as I reach for a small towel and dry my hands, I eye the tub and say, “I need to wash, too.”

  I hear a scoff.

  The fae turns around, leans against the door, and crosses his arms. There’s a ripple down his bicep.

  “No.” His answer is firm, unyielding.

  I lower my lashes on him, eyes narrowed, and I step closer to the tub. Tossing the towel onto its edge, I hold his stare.

  “I need the warm water for the aches in my body—the aches you gave me,” I say, my voice rising with the flutter of anger in my chest. “You made me clean your wounds. I did that.” Sort of. “So fucking excuse me for insisting on this one small thing.”

  I stink. I hurt. I ache. And I want that bloody bath.

  His mouth tugs up at the corner. “Try it.”

  For a moment, we’re at check. We stare at each other, both motionless and quiet, waiting for the other to move first.

  It’s me. I reach down for the zipper on the inside of my boot. And I barely grip it before large hands snatch my shoulders and I’m spun around.