Page 15 of His to Save
What has he done to me? What have I become in the space of a day?
And why does it feel like I'm finally where I belong?
eight
. . .
Priscilla
Four days.It's been four days since Woodrow brought me to this cabin, since my life turned upside down. Four days of his hands on my body, his cock inside me, his voice in my ear calling me his little girl. Four days of fear and lust and confusion, all swirling together until I can't separate one from the other. But something else is happening too, something I didn't expect. The fear is fading, replaced by something warmer, something deeper. Something that feels dangerously like trust. Like connection. Like the beginning of love, though I'm not ready to call it that, even in the privacy of my own mind.
I stand at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for dinner. Woodrow is outside, checking the property perimeter—something he does religiously three times a day. A routine has formed between us, as natural as if we've been together for years instead of days. He makes coffee in the morning, strong and black. I cook most meals, finding unexpected comfort in the domestic tasks. We read together in the evenings, his large body taking up most of the couch, mine curled against his side.
And we talk. God, do we talk. Not at first—those first two days were all primal need and claiming, his body taking mine inevery room of the cabin, on every surface. But then something shifted. He started asking questions. About my life, my thoughts, my dreams. And I started answering.
The door opens, bringing a rush of cool evening air and Woodrow's imposing presence. He stamps his boots on the mat, shrugging out of his jacket. His eyes find me immediately, as they always do, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Perimeter's clear," he says, crossing to me in three long strides. His arms wrap around me from behind, lips pressing against my neck, right over his mark. He always kisses me there first, like renewing his claim. "What are you making?"
"Stir fry," I answer, leaning back into his solid warmth. "It'll be ready in about twenty minutes."
"Perfect." His hands slide up, cupping my breasts through my (his) t-shirt, his touch possessive but gentle. "Just enough time to build up an appetite."
I laugh, swatting his hands away. "Down, boy. Let me finish cooking first."
He growls playfully against my neck but releases me, moving to set the table instead. This easy domesticity should frighten me, should remind me that none of this is normal—I'm essentially a captive, hidden away in a remote cabin with a man who admitted to stalking me, who's promised violence against those who would harm me. But it doesn't. It feels…right. Like coming home to a place I never knew existed.
After dinner, Woodrow builds a fire in the large stone fireplace. The nights have grown colder, autumn fully asserting itself. I curl up on the couch with a blanket while he works, admiring the play of muscles beneath his tight black t-shirt as he arranges logs and kindling.
"I never had a fireplace growing up," I say, the words coming unbidden. "My mom and I moved a lot after my dad left. Always apartments, always small. Never anywhere that felt permanent."
Woodrow glances over his shoulder, those intense eyes studying me. "That must have been hard. Always being the new kid."
I nod, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "I got used to being alone. Easier that way—not getting attached when you know you'll just have to leave again."
The fire catches, flames licking at the logs, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Woodrow comes to sit beside me, his weight making the couch dip, drawing me naturally into his side.
"Is that why you keep to yourself now?" he asks, one large hand settling on my thigh. "I've watched you. No close friends. No relationships. Always polite, but always distant."
"I guess old habits die hard." I stare into the flames, finding it easier to open up when not looking directly at him. "After Mom died three years ago, there wasn't really anyone left. No reason to let people get close."
His arm tightens around me. "Until now."
It's not quite a question, but I answer anyway. "Until now."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, his heartbeat steady under my ear where my head rests against his chest. I feel safe here. Protected. Wanted. Things I've never truly felt before.
"What did you want to be?" he asks suddenly. "Before life got in the way. What was the dream?"
I laugh softly. "Promise not to laugh?"
"I promise," he says, so serious it makes my heart skip.
"A writer," I admit. "I wanted to write stories—romance novels, actually. The kind with happy endings. The kind I never believed in."
Instead of laughing, he shifts, tilting my face up to his. "You'd be good at it. You have a way with words. And enough heart to fill a thousand pages."
The compliment catches me off guard, warmth flooding my cheeks. "You think so?"
