Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(104)

I have nothing that needs my immediate attention, and my sleep gauge is close to empty, so I agree to that walk with Dalton and Storm. Then I agree to a beer on our back porch while Dalton plays with the dog. After that, I agree to let him play with me upstairs. Okay, “agree” might imply I actually consider refusing. I do not. By midnight, I am soundly and happily asleep.

I wake to the odd sensation of something encircling my wrist. I crack open my eyes to bright sunlight, and I have a momentary flash of alarm, thinking I’ve overslept, before remembering that up here, at this time of year, it’s full sunlight by six. I yawn and reach for Dalton. Whatever encircles my wrist tightens, and I find my other hand following the first as if pulled along. No, not “as if”—it is being pulled along. My wrists are tied together.

There’s not a single second where I wonder whether Dalton’s having some fun. I hesitate to call his sexual style vanilla, because that implies boring, and it’s definitely not. It’s just that kink isn’t really part of his vocabulary. He grew up with minimal exposure to mass media—including porn—and by the time he was eighteen, he had older women eager to initiate him into the world of sex. Many women, very eager. Even if he did develop a sudden interest in bondage play, there’s no way in hell he’d instigate it while I was asleep, unable to refuse. Those women taught him well.

So when that strap tightens, my heart hammers, but I keep my face relaxed, eyes shut. My hands fall onto the bed, as if I’d reached out in sleep. Then I listen. The room stays silent.

I crack open one eye. I’m lying on the right side of the bed, facing the left. Dalton’s spot is empty. On the nightstand, there’s a thermos, and a plate with a muffin and berries. The clock lies face down. A note is tucked under the plate.

Dalton’s gone. He’s turned off the alarm and left me breakfast. The note will say he’s taken Storm into work while I sleep.

I’m ready to open my eyes when fabric rustles behind me. A floorboard gives underfoot, not a creak, just a whisper of movement.

My hands are tied in front of me. Plastic cuffs. I know that without even looking. They’re the ones we keep by the box-load in the station, and we have no reason to secure them.

My gun is under the mattress. Close at hand without lying in plain sight. Not close enough to grab. There’s a knife in the nightstand drawer. A penknife, for utility rather than defense. It could cut these cuffs off. I peek at the drawer. Three feet away. I need to throw myself across the bed, roll up onto my feet, get the drawer open, find the knife . . .

It’d be an excellent plan if I were alone with my attacker waiting downstairs.

I am not alone.

Another board gives underfoot. The sound comes from the foot of the bed. My captor is walking around it. Moving slowly. Trusting I am asleep but knowing, from my movement a few minutes ago, that I’ll wake soon.

I turn my face into the pillow with a groan, as if shifting in sleep. I hear breathing now. Slow breathing.

I ease one leg back and brace my foot. My knees are bent, my shoulders twisted, my bound hands against the mattress. The covers lay over my legs, and I consider tossing to get free of them, but I know that’s too much movement. The sheet feels loose. I hope it is.

I have my eyes almost shut, and that means I can see only a shape circling the bed. I desperately want to open them a little more, but I don’t dare. I wait until the figure moves up alongside the bed. Then I spring. I push off with my legs, an awkward leap and roll on a direct trajectory with that figure. It is only as I hit that I see who it is. My shoulder strikes, knocking her back. I kick as hard as I can and then swing both hands—

“Casey, don’t.”

She lifts a gun, pointed at me. Pointed not at my head, but at my shoulder, and I when I see that, rage fills me. It’s the same thing I’ve done, the same thing I did with Phil, to show that it’s no idle threat. She does that, and I want her to point it at my head instead.

Don’t do what I would do. You are nothing like me.

“Casey? Just sit down, okay? I’m here to talk. That’s it. Talk.”

I stare at her, and rage blinds me until I see only the gun floating in front of me.

“This is not how you talk to me,” I say, my teeth gritted.

Petra eases back, gun lowering a fraction. “It’s not how I want to talk to you, Casey, but apparently, it’s the only way I can.”

“Like hell. I may not be happy to chat these days, Petra, but that does not give you any right to—”

“I did what I had to.”

“Break into my house? Tie me up while I’m asleep? Hold me at gunpoint? If you try to tell me that I’m overreacting, and you’re still my friend, you had better be prepared to shoot me or I swear I will kick your fucking teeth in.”

She blanches at that.

I step toward her. “You want to talk to me? Take off these cuffs. Put down that gun. If you do that, I might give you five minutes.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she says. “If I’m not holding you at gunpoint, you’ll decide when and if you listen to me, and when and if you stop listening to me. You’re pissed. I get that. I don’t blame you. But this . . .” She waggles the gun. “This is the language you and I both understand. Under the circumstances, it’s the only language, under the circumstances, you’ll respect. But this isn’t the conversation where I try to convince you I’m on your side and hope you’ll see I am. This is one where I—we—are in a shitload of trouble, and I need you to listen to me.”