Page 8 of Wildling

He lifts my chin and cups the back of my head, bringing the water to my lips. “Calm the fuck down and drink. I’m here to help you.”

I’m so parched, when the water hits my lips, my body craves more. I gulp it, nearly spitting it out as water drips down my chin. I dare a glance at him…What does he mean he’s here to help me?

He pulls away, then takes the same bottle and wets a cloth, bringing it to my face, wiping it. The cool water brings instant relief to my forehead. He then wipes the rest of my body, pointedly not touching any areas he shouldn’t. He runs the cool cloth all over my bare skin but keeps me tied up. The pain all over my body is unbearable.

“Just kill me and get it over with,” I mumble.

He chuckles to himself again. That low chuckle is so familiar. “I’m not going to kill you yet, wildling. You haven’t experienced enough pain for me to grace you with death.”

Wildling. That’s what my grandfather used to call me.

His hand cups the back of my head, and he pours more water into my mouth. His gestures so far, however, have been anything but painful. He’s soft…delicate almost, but I don’t believe for one second he wants to take care of me.

Our eyes meet again, and dread settles deep in my core. I recognize those eyes, and he knows my name—and a nickname only one person has ever called me.

“You know my name, what am I supposed to call you?” I ask cautiously.

His golden eyes flash, the rest of his face hidden behind dark fabric. “You can call me the Archer.”

Tears streak down my face. “What are you going to do to me?”

He holds my gaze and rises. “That depends entirely on you. I can be your savior or your worst nightmare. The choice is yours, Layla.”

He shifts closer to me, and that’s when I get a whiff of him. He smells good…earthy. Like cedar. It might be because of my circumstances, but I wish he didn’t smell this good. The smell of him makes my insides tingle in a way that makes me want to scream.

“If I free your hands, will you behave?” His voice makes my stomach twist.

I nod and keep firm eye contact. He unties the knot, and I bide my time before going feral on him again. Kicking and scratching at him. He wants to call me wild, I’ll give him fucking wild.

It doesn’t take long for him to restrain me. Physically, I stand no chance against him. He keeps me at bay with one hand. “Nightmare it is.” He chuckles.

“Fuck you,” I seethe.

He lets me go and stands up. “I plan to, Layla. But not before you beg for it.”

“I’ll never beg you to do anything, you fucking psycho. When my family finds you, they are going to tear you to shreds. You won’t even make it to prison. We’ll kill you before then, and we will make it painful.”

He doesn’t respond. He just shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll see if you’ll be a bit more compliant.”

He’s just going to leave me with my arm hanging in pieces. I push myself up with my other arm, my hair is a matted mess falling in my face. “Wait,” I call out, dropping my head to the mattress. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but he’s clearly waiting for something. “I’ll behave. Just fix my arm. Please.”

He jumps up the ladder. “Too late, wildling.”

That nickname again.

He slams the bunker door closed, leaving me in the pitch dark. My shoulder is still dislocated, but my body is clean and at least I’m free.

Deep guilt flows through me, and I hold on to the pain. It’s the least I deserve for what I did six months ago. That man knows more than my name and identity. He knows my darkest secret I vowed I’d carry to my grave.

Chapter 4

Present

It’s Friday night as I get ready in my bathroom, laying on my eyeliner thicker than usual. Beth called earlier to say she wanted me to attend a gala with Gabe to meet some potential buyers for my art. All the key figures in the Vancouver art scene will be there. She thinks it will be good for me to get out and start living my life again.

I begrudgingly accepted, wishing that I could disappear again. A part of me was freer in that bunker than I am now, bound by invisible chains to the hometown I dread returning to.

I stare at the mirror— and hardly recognize myself. My eyes are tired and gaunt. I used to wear makeup constantly, but after months without it, it seems strange now. I’m supposed to be getting better and returning to my old self. So why do I feel worse?