Page 2 of Daddy’s Hunted Bride

She isn’t one of ours. I can see all three of my nieces through the window, but even if I couldn't, her clothes would be a dead giveaway. None of the Little girls in our family would be allowed to wear the curve-hugging leggings and long-sleeved shirt this newcomer is sporting.

Curious now, I set the ax down as quietly as I can and slip into the woods behind her. This is another way I’m not like my siblings. If they never had to actually step foot in the forest that surrounds our home, they’d be perfectly happy.

Me, though? I love it here. The sounds, the smells, the animals. I’ve spent hours upon hours exploring these woods, familiarizing myself with the landscape. Which is why I was the one they sent searching for little Tabby when she disappeared on us a few days ago. Luckily, she was just up on the roof, rather than lost in the woods.

Not that her choice of hiding place saved her from her Daddy’s wrath, of course. But still, it was actually the safer option.

All of that fades to the back of my mind as I watch our intruder pull a phone from her pocket and begin recording as my second eldest brother, Bram, flips his babygirl over his lap for a bare-bottomed spanking. I have no idea what she did, but I don’t care. My attention is riveted on the bold brat in front of me.

Hair the color of good mahogany falls in a straight waterfall from a high ponytail. Her clothes are solid black, which amuses me. My own adorable little cat burglar.

I’m tempted to sit back and watch what she does next, but I can’t risk her escaping. Not when she has video evidence of my brother disciplining his Little girl. The spanking itself is of less concern to me than the fact that Bram’s face is likely on that recording, clear as day.

If that video were to get out, revealing that we are not only alive and well but hiding out in the mountains of Colorado, it would be disastrous for our family.

So I sneak up behind her, further amused when she doesn’t even flinch at my approach. She’s clearly too invested in her evidence gathering, whatever the purpose, to pay attention to her surroundings.

Once I’m close enough, I reach forward, plucking the device from her fingers. My little intruder freezes in place as I lean down to speak low in her ear.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I’ve caught myself a naughty Little girl. It must be my lucky day.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, she scrambles up from her hiding place and bolts into the woods.

Oh, good.

I was so hoping she’d run.

Vanessa

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The sound of my footsteps crashing through the forest is only matched by my labored breathing and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I want to check to see if he’s following me, to see if I’m safe, but I don’t dare look back.

Final girls never look back.

Drawing on years of horror movie knowledge, I push forward, keeping my eye out for raised limbs or holes in the ground just waiting to catch an unsuspecting girl unawares. Luckily for me, I ran track in high school and I still run nearly every day. Not through the woods, mind you, but it’s at least enough training for me to keep my pace up as I run like hell for safety. Branches fly at my face, piercing my skin, but I don’t slow down. Don’t pause.

Scratches can be healed. A fatal knife wound to the heart cannot.

A glint of sunlight ahead catches my eye and I make a hard right toward it, praying for another house or a car. Something that might mean there are people around I can run to, good people who might be willing to help a random stranger.

Or people who will take one look at the man hunting me and hand me over.

Please god, let them be good people.

Disappointment bubbles in my chest when I realize the glint isn’t from any kind of window, but from a creek. But I don’t let that slow me down, I keep running, straight into the water.

Big mistake.

My foot catches on something I can’t see and I go flying forward, face first into the rushing water. And before I can haul myself up to continue my flight, I’m yanked upward.

Panicked, I fall back on pure instinct, kicking my legs and swinging my arms, desperate to catch some part of him, hopefully hard enough to break a rib or something so he’ll drop me.

“Let go of me, you bastard!”

Not the most original line, but it gets the point across.

“Little girls don’t use those grown-up words.”