Skin (Flesh 2)

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

He wiped more blood from his brow. His hand returned covered in the stuff. There were blotches of dark red on Roslyn’s skin and clothes, face and hair. Bloody wonderful. What a great start. Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t help. His head pounded, brain fit to explode. Still her beautiful blue eyes bored into him. Laser beams couldn’t have been more effective.

“I’m a f**king idiot.”

She nodded.

Emphatically.

CHAPTER THREE

Roslyn’s jaw hurt and she needed to pee. Who knew how long it had been since he’d cuffed her to the bed and gagged her. But facts of nature being what they were, she might disgrace herself before much longer. Jane Eyre never had to put up with this sort of shit. Roslyn suddenly felt quite bad for poor old Bertha locked up in the attic.

She rattled the cuffs, banging the metal bands against the headboard. Also, she attempted to wipe her chin off on her arm since she was dribbling again. Screw the indignity. Her throat felt parched, her shoulders ached and she remained covered in his blood. It’d dried to a clump in her fringe. She could see a streak of it on the side of her nose. The coppery scent turned her stomach.

Sunlight had gradually faded, leaving the room bathed in a soft golden glow. It’d probably been hours. Or half an hour, at least.

Nick had put a rough bandage on his face, cleaned up the kitchen and then disappeared into what had to be the bathroom. It seemed to be the only private room in the whole open-plan cabin. Her prison consisted of a lot of wood, with pine on the ceiling, floor and walls. A window across the way had been boarded up with more of the stuff. There was a big lounge. An ornate patchwork blanket done in shades of blue and brown hung opposite. A shelf full of books, leather-bound classics by the look. She couldn’t see much else. There was plenty of bed-and-breakfast and cabin-style accommodation in the area. The local wineries had brought tourists in droves. Wine and wilderness and all the fun stuff. She’d moved to the area a year back, seeking a tree change. And thank God she had. Apparently everyone in the cities was dead.

Still no sign of Nick. He hadn’t come near her again, thankfully. But she definitely needed him now.

She banged the cuffs against the headboard once more, calling up some customer service. It made a satisfying din. So long as she didn’t further damage her punching hand. She might need it. Hopefully Neil still felt the pain, somewhere out there. What a warming thought for the beginning of another cold night.

Nick stuck his head out of the bathroom, face cleaned up. No sign of the bandage and the cut on his temple had been sealed somehow. It made for an impressively angry, puckered red line. She’d done got him good. It sliced through one dark eyebrow and up the side of his forehead, trailing off into his hairline.

That’s what you got for trying to buy girls with canned goods. Devil. She’d shelve him at 235.

His bloodstained shirt was gone. In fact, he wore only a scowl and a faded pair of blue jeans. He wore them well. No wonder she hadn’t been able to escape; the man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It’d been a while since her last yoga class, what with the apocalypse and all. Exercise had never been her strong suit. This man, however, appeared the epitome of lean and mean. He had the same long, hard lines as a swimmer. It took some effort to peel her eyes away, despite her profound hatred.

“What?” he grouched.

Poor baby. If only she didn’t have the stupid gag in her mouth she’d have given him what for.

Roslyn tried to communicate several things with her eyes. Firstly, that she still believed him to be a f**king idiot. But secondly, and most importantly, she needed to pee and get a drink of water.

He made no move toward her. His gaze remained hard, unyielding. The jut of his chin looked distinctly unimpressed.

She blinked and cocked her head. Please.

He scowled some more. Then he winced, fine lips wrinkling in pain. His face had to hurt. Her enemy moved closer, looking down on her with wary brown eyes.

“If I remove the ball gag, do you promise not to scream?” he asked.

She nodded.

His lips tightened. “Do you realize that by screaming you alert everything to our presence here? That you put us both in danger?”

Huh. Well, no. It hadn’t occurred to her. Thwarting him and escaping had been the only things on her mind, and rightly so. Because if she stopped to think about it, there wasn’t anyone out there to hear her and come running to her aid, was there? No. There had been absolutely no point in hollering her heart out. It had been sheer instinct. And his face seemed deadly serious, giving her pause. Had she put them in danger?

“You need to think before you go making a lot of noise again.” Nick leant over and released something on the side of the gag. The pressure eased and he slipped the rubber ball from her mouth. Oh yes, what sweet relief.

Her jaw cracked as she slowly worked it back to normal. It ached. To think that some people did this for fun. Clearly, they were crazy. She’d stick with the vanilla sex and leave the kinky crap to the couples in her smuttier books, thank you very much. She swallowed hard and wet her lips, tried to shift up the bed. Partly to ease the tension in her shoulders and neck, but also because she hated having him that close.

“Thanks,” she croaked.

“Let me get you a drink.”

“Problem.”

“Mm?”

“I need to visit the bathroom.”

Nick reached for a bottle of water and unscrewed the lid, carefully filled a glass waiting on the bedside table. For ages it had sat there taunting her.

“I have a solution, he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

She jerked back and the water splashed on her neck. Cold shivers skittered across her skin. “If it involves something disgusting like golden showers, then you’re right.”

The man stopped and stared. “You have a hell of an imagination.”

“Says the guy who ball-gagged me.”

“No. Of course it doesn’t involve anything like that.” With the glass of water in hand he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. There was nowhere for her to go. His spare hand reached out, to lift her head or something, and no, no, no. She panicked, rearing back again and hitting the bed-head. Which smarted.

“You wanted a drink,” he said.

“I don’t want you touching me.”

Nick’s gaze narrowed but he moved back a smidgeon. He took his sweet time before speaking. “Alright. My solution is to put a chain around your ankle attached to the bed. But it won’t stop you from trying to attack me again. It still requires a level of trust. That’s the problem.”