The Heathen (Preacher Brothers 2)

I was in a bedroom; that much was clear by the wide dresser in front of me and the closet to my right that was open, showcasing clothes hanging from a metal rod inside. The bedroom door was open, and I saw the bright lights from the other room washing down the hallway. I looked at the ceiling, saw the fan above me, the three lights encased in glass globes having this dimmed, white glow to them.

To my left, there was a window, the curtains drawn. Beside me, there was a small bedside table with a clock sitting on it. The time showed ten at night. I looked toward the door again and finally noticed her standing there, several feet from me as if she were terrified. I lowered my gaze to her hand and saw she held my gun. It looked big in her palm, far too large for someone of her small stature to be holding.

“You know how to use that thing?” I cleared my throat at the gruff tone.

“Point and shoot. Seems pretty self-explanatory.”

I chuckled humorlessly and shifted on the bed, pulling on my hands and realizing again they were bound. I tipped my head back and looked at the knots, pulling on them once more, the headboard rattling slightly but the restraints holding firm.

“Those knots aren’t going anywhere,” she said softly, but there was this hardness to her voice, as if she were trying to appear strong to me.

No, not appear that she was.

She actually was.

“It’s the only thing my father taught me that was of use.” It’s as if she said that as an afterthought, maybe thinking she hadn’t said it out loud, because she quickly looked down at the ground.

Long moments of silence passed between us, and I shifted on the bed enough that I was in more of a sitting position. My head throbbed something fucking fierce, but I pushed that pain back. It wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to, hadn’t experienced before tenfold.

We just stared at each other, this thickness in the room, this uncomfortable and awkward silence as we looked at each other. I was waiting to see what she’d do, what she’d say.

Despite trying to act unaffected by her presence, by the reality of the situation and what I would have to do in order to keep myself and my family out of the prying eyes of anyone not in our tightly knit circle, I couldn’t help but continuously think about how pretty she was.

God, she was so fucking pretty.

Beautiful.

Gorgeous.

She was small, tiny compared to my stature. But she had curves. I could see them under the baggy clothes she wore, the oversized cable knit sweater that covered her from neck to waist, the lounge pants that were loose and hung around her legs and covered the tops of her thick socks she wore on her little feet.

Her long, dark hair hung loose around her face, wavy, the strands hitting the tops of her collarbones. And her eyes… her eyes were blue and bright, big and round, with dark lashes framing them and contrasting the light shade of her irises.

“If you let me go, I’ll forget any of this ever happened,” I found myself saying, and it was so unlike me… bargaining, trying to make someone feel better with my words or actions. And I knew as I lay there staring at her, my hands tied above my head, the fact that she’d brought me in here, used that little body of hers to restrain me instead of getting the authorities, had the corner of my mouth wanting to kick up in a smile.

If I told anyone what I’d just told her, I’d have been lying.

But I wasn’t lying to her. Was I?

A part of me didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want anyone to hurt her. She seemed so frail, so innocent and vulnerable. I didn’t even want her in the same room with me because of the type of monster I was.

And I was one.

She was scared, no doubt, but she was also fierce. I found that highly attractive. She said nothing as she worried her bottom lip, her little white teeth pulling at the soft, red flesh. Although she said nothing, I could see in her expression, in her eyes, that she was thinking about her options, about what she should or shouldn’t do.

“You need to let me go, Kimber. You need to realize who I am, what I do, and how you’re not safe.” I needed her to be fully afraid, not letting her strength rise up. She had the option to fight or retreat.

She needed to retreat from me.

She needed to run.

“You’re hurting,” she finally said and took a step toward me. She didn’t even bother responding to my statement.

As if on instinct, my entire body tightened, my muscles contracting. I didn’t like the fact that she had this effect on me, as if I couldn’t control myself.