Page 13 of Roped

That night. The one in the alley where he saved me from those three drunk assholes.

And before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Why did you save me?”

His face doesn’t give anything away. Not even a hint of what he’s thinking or even if he heard me.

But I keep going. “That night? You came to my rescue. You… Why did you do that? Why did you… And what about all the other times? Why did you save me then? Why did you keep saving me? Why—”

“For myself,” he says in a raspy voice.

“You—”

“Every good hunter knows how to protect his prey from other predators,” he continues, his eyes flashing and downright animalistic-looking. “How to defend his territory, keep it safe, keep it fresh and scared. Just for himself.”

Shivers run up and down my spine and I ask, “Is that what you are? A hunter?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not… I’m not scared of you.”

His stare drops down to my mouth, which I realize is trembling before I purse my lips. He looks up, the scar on his face somehow more pronounced. “You’ll learn to be.”

I swallow at his words that sound like both a promise and a threat. Then, “And I’m not a territory.”

“Right now, you are whatever the fuck I say you are.”

“I—”

“Now,” he says, his chest moving with a deep breath, “drink.”

I glance down at the bottle and then back up at him. “How do I know this isn’t drugged?”

He looks me in the eye as he replies, “If I wanted to drug you, I’d just use the needle again.” I clench my teeth and he adds, “And between the two of us, I ain’t the one who likes slippin’ drugs into people’s drinks. So again, drink.”

I watch him for a few moments before asking, “What’s your name?”

Of course, he doesn’t answer me.

“I’ll drink if you tell me your name.”

“You’ll drink if you don’t wanna faint.”

“What?”

“The sedative I gave you,” he explains all calmly, “makes you dehydrated. The more time you waste arguin’ with me, the more chances of you gettin’ lightheaded and conkin’ out. So I’d quit your mouthin’ off and do as you’re told.”

My nails are digging into my palms, but I keep my expression blasé. “If you want me to drink, you’re going to have to tip the bottle a little more.”

A muscle moves in his cheek on the left side, making his scar twitch as well. And for a brief second, I let myself focus again on the fact that his scar doesn’t have the power to take his beauty away. I don’t think anything has the power to take his beauty away, not even the truth that the man I thought was my Phantom is actually a hunter. Who’s been stalking me like prey for the past six months.

He does as I suggest and brings the bottle even closer to my mouth, his fingers—calloused and strong—wrapped around the neck. I dip my head slightly as if to take a sip. But at the last second, I move it and go for his hand. I sink my teeth into his scraped fingers and bite. As hard as I can. I practically lodge my teeth in his skin, deep, ready to bite off a chunk of his flesh. I’ll fucking maim him if I have to, but he’s going to know pain. He’s going to fucking know who he’s dealing with. That I’m not going down without a fight. He can’t just toy with me for months, make a fool out of me, and get away unscathed.

I think the bottle drops from his hand and I feel him jerk. But only slightly. I’m not satisfied with that so I bite him harder, wanting him to howl with pain. But all there is, is silence and his taste in my mouth. Spicy mixed in with metal. Blood? Did I draw blood? Before I can figure out either way, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head. His fingers fisted in my hair, he yanks my head back, making me moan in pain before descending. He towers over me, filling my vision with his harsh face and glittering eyes. Then, “The rope I used on you is made of hemp. It’s strong, good for tyin’ things up, but also easy on the skin; don’t leave a mark. We use it on newborn calves on our ranch. Since this was your first time, thought I should go gentle on you. Tie you up with somethin’ that won’t hurt you or mar your creamy fuckin’ skin. Don’t make me regret that. Don’t make me tie you up in jute and deliver you all bloody and bruised. No one would care about any wounds on the Turner Princess, not where I’m takin’ you.” His fist tightens in my hair as he goes on, “And don’t make me shove this bottle in your annoyin’ little mouth and pour this juice down your fuckin’ throat. You haven’t had a sip of water for over seven hours now and you need to drink, yeah?”

I’m shaking. There’s no other way to describe it. The tremors that are going through my body aren’t subtle shivers but actual shakes. They make my teeth chatter. They make me want to shrink away from him, from his mean face and brutal grip. Somehow, though, I manage to nod.

He breathes deep at my acquiescence.

Then he produces the bottle again. This time, it’s held in his bloody hand. It’s only half full because I was right; it did fall on the ground just now, but there’s plenty left for me to drink. He tips it toward my mouth, and I reluctantly do what he wants me to. As soon as I take the first sip, my eyes skitter up to his. It’s my favorite kind of juice. It’s what I drink every morning: a mix of mango and passion fruit. It’s what I bring with myself to school, painstakingly poured into a thermos because I hate drinking anything else, even water. I keep our eyes locked as I continue drinking, or rather, as he feeds me my favorite juice, my heart racing. My skin feeling all heated and tight.