Chapter 13 My mechanism is broken
Eva
The cell suddenly felt too small. Or maybe I was too big, with all this fury and fear packed into my skin, stretching me to the point of breaking.
I stood there long after he left, the taste of my own rebellion sharp on my tongue. I wanted to break something. I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. I wanted to tear his skin from his bones.
Instead, I sank onto the cot, the book I’d been reading digging into my hip. I picked it up, my hands shaking. I threw it across the cell. It hit the concrete wall with a dull thud and slid to the floor.
I had to get out.
I pushed myself to my feet and walked to the open doorway. Freedom. Just a few feet away. I took a step, then another. My body screamed at me to run, to escape this madman and his moon-worshipping, wolf-turning bullshit.
But my feet stopped at the threshold.
I looked back at the cot, the book on the floor, and the torc, still lying where I’d dropped it: a circle of silver on the gray concrete. I opened my mouth to curse myself, to list every logical reason I should be halfway to Nashville by now.
Nothing came out.
I knew one thing: if I left now, I would never understand the truth about the birthmark, about the wolf, about the way my body responded to him like a flower turning to the sun.
I was a creature of logic, of cause and effect. Pick a lock, it opens. Push a button, it clicks. Everything had a mechanism. And right now, my mechanism was broken. The only way to fix it was to understand how it was built.
I turned away from the open door and walked back into the cell. I picked up the torc. The metal was cool now, but I could feel the latent energy thrumming inside it. I looked down at the words, and the vertigo returned, the world tilting on its axis. I had the sudden, insane urge to put it on. To feel it close around my neck. To see what would happen.
My fingers twitched, and I almost did it. But the survivor in me screamed no. That was a trap, a test I wasn't ready to fail.
I dropped the torc back onto the cot and sank to the floor, my back against the wall. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, to center myself, to find the calm amid the storm.
But the calm wasn't there. All I could see were his silver eyes, all I could feel was the ghost of his touch on my jaw and lips, and all I could hear was the low rumble of his voice promising to make me his.
Is the self-destructive behavior I’m feeling right now a good or a bad thing? Probably bad, but the part of my brain that cares about that is currently on vacation.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, he was there.
He didn't make a sound. He was just… there. Standing in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs. The scent of coffee and something else, something herbal and floral, drifted into the cell.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Don't you knock?"
"This is my house, Eva," he said, his tone mild. "I don't knock." He held out one of the mugs to me. "Chamomile. It'll help with the shock."
I stared at the mug like it was a venomous snake. "I'm not in shock. I'm pissed off."
"Fair enough," he said, and set the mug on the floor. He leaned against the doorway, sipping from the other mug, watching me over the rim. "How's the wrist?"
"It's been better," I said, cradling it against my chest.
He nodded. "You did a good job setting it. You have steady hands."
"I have many skills," I said, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Thievery, lock-picking, pissing off ancient, supernatural douchebags."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You always did have a way with words."
He was playing with me, I realized. Prodding me, testing my boundaries, waiting for me to crack. But I wouldn't. I was Eva Harlow. I didn't crack. I shattered things, including myself if I had to, but I never let them see the pieces.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice tight.
"I want you to eat something," he said. "You haven't had a proper meal in two days."
Before I could protest, he was gone. I heard a faint clang from the tunnel, and then he was back, holding a small tray. On it was a bowl of steaming stew, a hunk of bread, and a glass of water. He set it on the floor and slid it toward me.
"I'm not hungry," I lied. My stomach chose that exact moment to betray me with a loud, embarrassing rumble.
He just raised an eyebrow. "Eat."
"I'm not your pet."
"No," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You're my goddess. And even goddesses need to eat."
The word "goddess" hung in the air between us. I looked at the stew. It smelled good, rich and savory, with chunks of meat and vegetables. My stomach grumbled again.
Cursing under my breath, I reached down and picked up the spoon. I took a tentative sip of the broth, my eyes on him the whole time. It was delicious. I took another, deeper sip, then picked up a piece of meat with my fingers and ate it.
He watched me eat, a strange, almost tender expression on his face. I hated him for it. I hated him for the food, for the concern, for the way my body was responding to him, a traitorous orchestra of need and fear and something else, something I couldn't name.
When I was finished, I set the bowl back on the tray, my movements stiff and deliberate. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," he said, deadpan. He pushed off the doorway and walked over to where I was sitting. My gaze flickers over him: naked, not aroused, but comfortable in a way no man should be comfortable while naked. Jesus Christ, this man was serving stew buck-ass naked like this was a normal Friday. I was not emotionally prepared for this level of casual dick.
"Are you poor?" I asked, the words popping out before I could stop them.
He stopped, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What?"
"You're the king of a coal mine fight club. You must be rolling in it. Yet, you walk around naked like a caveman," I said, gesturing vaguely in his direction. "Can't you afford pants?"
A slow grin spread across his face. "You're thinking about my dick."
"I'm thinking about basic human decency and hygiene standards," I retorted, even as a hot flush crept up my neck.
He crouched down in front of me, bringing us eye to eye. "Do you like it? My dick?" he asked, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Because it sure likes you."