Wrong Way Home - Taken (Criminal Delights 1)

Colin flinched when the door shut, but once he was alone, the atmosphere became peaceful, leaving just his nakedness and the quickened heartbeat as signs of what had just occurred.

The sun reached halfway up his thighs, and when he took his first full breath since the sex had finished, the scents of the forest made him lean back, somewhat calmer despite the shadow of Taron’s axe still hanging all too close. Rio opened one eye and peeked at Colin from the corner of the porch where he enjoyed the warmth of sunshine, sprawled over Colin’s crutches.

Without Taron present, out of the dark bunker, the world seemed at peace. Rattling inside the house was the only sign that something bad was still going on, and he was sure he wouldn’t like what was to come.

Taron came out with a small backpack and some clothes in his other hand. He threw the bundle of fabric into Colin’s lap and pointed at the bag.

He leaned over to Colin and pulled on the collar so abruptly Colin expected a shock, but instead, he heard a click, and the metal band was off his neck. Taron threw it into the grass without even looking where it had fallen. His eyes were reddened when he signed.

Colin stared at him, unsure if he understood Taron right, but he didn’t dare ask. His neck was uncomfortably light without the weight of the collar, and in the shadow of Taron’s accusatory stare, he felt so small and insignificant he might have as well been a speck of dirt. He said nothing, watching in disbelief as Taron slammed the door behind him and left him alone.

The collar was off.

Colin was free.

Chapter Eighteen

Colin was glad his leg hurt, because the constant ache caused by the wooden brace rubbing against skin was providing him something to focus on other than the never-ending corridor of green and brown. Branches reached far above the path, trying to grab him, but his brain remained focused on the damp mud filling the deep grooves of tyre tracks left by Taron’s car. His crutches and feet kept slipping on the uneven ground, so each movement needed to be perfectly executed if he didn’t want to fall and cause further damage to his leg.

Sweat had built up all over his skin, making him crave water, but he was determined to trudge on, because it had been late in the afternoon when he’d left the homestead, and he had no idea how much longer it would take for him to reach the asphalt road. If he couldn’t make it during daytime, would it be safer to walk or lie down somewhere in the grass? He had no flashlight and no phone. He had barely anything beyond the sparse provisions and clothes that were way too large for him.

He was starting to fear that the brace had rubbed his flesh raw under the sweatpants, but it wasn’t like he had anything to dress the new wound with anyway, so he chose not to look.

With his attention focused on the slippery road, he had no choice but to see the tyre marks left like crumbs for him to follow.

Colin stilled when one of the crutches skidded on a small rock, forcing him to stiffen his body in order to remain standing, and a low sob left his throat when he thought back to the warmth of the porch and to Rio playing with the straps of the backpack following Taron’s departure. Colin had stayed in the chair, naked and shocked, for minutes, because his brain kept telling him that Taron wouldn’t have let him go. That it was bound to be a cruel joke to taunt him.

But Taron had never come back, so Colin did the only logical thing to do—he dressed in whatever was provided and headed for home. Anyone would have grasped that opportunity for freedom, yet after three months of isolation from the outside world, he was freaking out.

Even the fucking collar around his neck had given him a sense of stability, of belonging. Released from it, he was floating in an endless sea of choices. What would he say to authorities or to his parents? He’d told Taron he hated him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to report Taron to the police. His brain was mush.

The crutch slipped again, and he cried out in frustration, slamming it hard against the nearest bush as soon as he regained his balance.

“Fuck. Fuck you,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, looking around the forest bathed in warm sunlight. There was no one to hit back at him, and the sense of emptiness this caused made his heart squeeze as if an invisible hand were trying to rid it of blood.