Summer Camp Captive

When she faints, I catch her body, lifting her off the ground so I can smell her hair, the curve of her neck. Ignoring the pinch in my chest—a product of scaring her into unconsciousness—I carefully place her over my shoulder and return to the woods.

Chapter Three

Lainey

Okay. He thinks I passed out, so I’ve bought myself some time.

First of all, what the fucking fuck?

Is he human? No. No way. They don’t make people this huge. Judging from my proximity to the ground right now, he’s safely in the eight-foot range, and that phenomenon doesn’t even account for his build. Somewhere, there is a professional football team that doesn’t know what they’re missing, because my abductor could take on an entire offensive line with his arm span and otherworldly size. He’s a living, breathing giant, top to bottom.

I saw him coming through the trees. Why didn’t I run?

Because I knew. I saw the intensity in the eyes peeking through his unruly hair and I knew I was his target. There was no escaping. On the far-off chance I was wrong, I wanted to distract him from the girls, so I stayed put. Surely, this is the Butcher of Braxton Lake, right? There can’t be more than one hulking barbarian living in these woods. Unless he has a brother.

With that thought, I begin to wonder if I’m going into shock. Although in my panic, I didn’t imagine that he’s indeed scarred. The white, puckered lengths of them crisscross on his cheeks, his neck. Another one bisects his lip. With so much dark, unkempt hair hanging in his face, I couldn’t take in the full effect of him, but what I saw told me the stupid campfire stories are true. Except the part about his hook hands. No, the hand creeping up the back of my bare thigh is most certainly not made of metal. It’s hot and callused…

…and needy.

He’s taking me somewhere for sex.

This literal giant wants to use me for pleasure.

I’ve been on the run since I turned sixteen two years ago. I’ve stayed as far as possible from the people who terrify me most, so it has been a while since I felt an immediate sense of fear. It creeps into my chest now and makes itself at home. I’m no expert in physics, but I’m pretty sure sex with someone this size will hurt. Bad. Maybe even enough to kill me. At least I won’t die a virgin?

Comforting.

Forcing my breathing to remain even, I take stock of my options. I’m not going to win in hand-to-hand combat—that’s for certain. I might throw a decent punch, but it’ll feel like a brush of butterfly wings to this guy. My only hope is the knife in my boot, but even if I hit an artery, how long will it take for blood loss to weaken this giant mofo? A month?

It seems like an hour passes before we reach a small clearing. He’s breathing heavily, his mammoth shoulder rippling beneath my stomach, but his rapid-fire inhales and exhales don’t seem to be a product of fatigue. No, the hand on my thigh has crept progressively higher, and his fingers are now inside my shorts, tracing the crack of my backside. Every few steps, he releases a heavy growl…the same growl I heard while Manny was asking me on that walk, I realize.

Did the giant…dislike Manny speaking to me? Jealousy seems to be a pretty human reaction. Maybe he wasn’t spat out from the depths of hell, as I originally thought. I sure as shit won’t be sticking around to find out, though.

In my periphery, I spy a small cabin. It’s tidier than his appearance and kind of homey-looking for someone referred to as the Butcher. Still, I can’t let him take me inside there. Can’t get stuck in a locked structure or my chances of freedom will be reduced. If I’m going to make a move, I have to make it outside. Now.

With a soothing, almost pained sound that surprises and confuses me, he eases me off his shoulder, settling me on the ground, up against his huge body. My cheek only reaches his stomach, but I can’t take the time to marvel over his rock-solid form—or his sort of pleasing masculine musk. Knowing my window of escape narrows by the second, I drop fast as I can and retrieve my knife, flipping it open. Taking advantage of his momentary shock—and recalling my anatomy lessons—I punch the blade toward his inner thigh—

His hand catches my wrist before the blade can sink in. “You were not sleeping, were you?”

“What tipped you off?” I pant, trying to pry my hand free. “Let me go.”

I swing a knee up, aiming for his groin, but he only uses his grip on my wrist to unbalance me, so I miss. “You are stronger than you look.”