Page 28 of Captive

I sigh and mutter a single word, Royal’s favorite: “Fuck.”

Since I’ve brooded long enough, I get myself to my feet and head back toward the bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light from the room spilling into the hallway. I wasn’t gone for that long, I don’t think, so I’m not expecting anything, but as I near the room, I realize I hear absolutely nothing in the room.

I’m seconds from pushing inside the room, but since the door is cracked, I’m able to see inside. From where I am, I can see the bed, the side I vacated when I needed to put some space between me and Abby.

My legs freeze.

Apparently, Royal didn’t feel the same need. Oh, no. He did, however, feel a different sort of need, if what I see is evidence enough.

And what do I see?

Royal’s mask rests on top of his head. He stands so close to her I can hardly see her around him, but based on how he’s bending over, I’d say her mask is off, too.

Shit. Giving her the saw was a bad idea.

What’s an even worse idea? Standing there in the darkness, being a peeping Tom, but that’s exactly what I do. I can’t even be upset about it. Hell, I think we all knew this was coming sooner or later.

It’s good, right? I mean, if Royal wants to be with her, face Hawthorne’s wrath, then he can go right ahead. It means she’s even more off-limits.

Right?

Chapter Thirteen – Abby

When Ezra steps away and says he needs some air, I wonder if one of us should go get him. I don’t think it’s normal for him to need some air while he’s, uh, working, but at the same time, I don’t dare stop what I’m doing. I can’t. I’m in the groove, so to speak. Plus, I’m halfway through, so I might as well power through it and get the job done.

Doing this with a handsaw is actually way easier than with a knife. I don’t know what I was thinking, doing all this with a sharp knife before. The serrated edge really does amplify the ease with which you can cut through bone.

Silly me.

I finish the ankle, and then I look at Royal from across the bed. He’s long since finished his side, though he still grips his saw like there’s more he wants to cut. He stands closer to the light of the room, and from this angle, I can see a bit of his dark eyes in the eyeholes of the hockey mask.

He’s staring straight at me, but since his face is covered, I can’t get a read on him.

“You doing okay over there, Royal?” I ask, sounding quite breathless. Seriously, listening to me, you’d think I was in the middle of getting freaking instead of, you know, doing my part for this D.D.K. victim.

For a few moments, the only thing we do is stare at each other from across the bed. I see his chest rise and fall with heavy, haggard breaths, and I wonder if he always gets this worked up during a killing. I sure don’t remember him seeming so labored last time, but I guess at the end there, I wasn’t really watching.

And then something changes. I don’t know what’s going through his head, but Royal squares his shoulders and moves around the foot of the bed, making a direct beeline toward me. I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, but as I turn my body to face his, I realize just how close he’s standing to me.

So close. Two inches, maybe. If I breathe deeply, the front of my chest will touch him. My head is angled back so I meet his eyes, and just like him, I still hold onto the bloodied saw.

Royal sets his saw down on the bed to my left, and then he reaches for the one I hold, placing it in much the same way. His gloved hand moves to his mask, and his fingers curl around the bottom of it. One second later, and his mask is lifted off his face, now resting on the top of his head, allowing me to see the expression the mask previously hid from me.

And he’s… he stares down at me so intensely the air is literally pushed out of my lungs. His black gaze, colorless, is so deep and powerful I am motionless and speechless. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stand there and wait for him to do something else.

Because, obviously, he has to do more.

Royal doesn’t say a word as he lifts a hand to my mask, lifting it just as he lifted his. The mask sits on the top of my head, threatening to slide off, but he rectifies that by placing both his gloved hands, bloodied as they are, on my face. He bends down and takes my lips against his.

If I thought the air was pulled out of my lungs before, I’m sucked dry right then. He kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before, all fire and heat and passion, the kind of kiss that makes my toes curl in my boots.

Literally. My toes curl before I know what’s happening.

My eyelids fall, and I lean into him, slow in grabbing hold of his shirt just above the dark plastic apron. We’re a bloody mess, but neither of us cares. Why would we? His mouth on mine ignites something deep within me I don’t even recognize, something so unfamiliar.

These emerging feelings, as terrifying as they are, don’t feel wrong. No, how could these feelings be wrong when it feels so damn right?

I moan into the kiss, and Royal responds by dropping one of his hands to my lower back and pulling my body harder against his. I fit so snugly against him, and I can’t help but moan again. He’s so arched thanks to how tall he is, and my head is so bent back to accommodate the kiss, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not just a kiss. It’s so much more.