Primals (Reverse Harem 1)

Chapter One

~ Clarissa

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY, this is November-niner-zero...”

The distressed voice of the pilot trails away, drowned out by the wind whipping the Cessna from both sides. With shaking hands, I grip the seatbelt straps over my shoulders and grind my back against the wool cushion of my seat as though seating myself somehow deeper will afford me more protection when we go down. I force cold air into my lungs in between silent pleas for help.

Please don’t crash. Please...

In the seat next to mine, Teresa isn’t silent at all, warbling a litany of words in her native Spanish tongue. Curses or prayers? I’m not sure. Probably one and the same right now.

Our eyes meet briefly, her onyx ones glistening with tears, screaming in fear. I contemplate reaching out to her in hopes of calming her down a notch but the aircraft suddenly shakes and jerks sideways. Overnight bags, carelessly left unzipped since the beginning of the flight when we all had grabbed out electronic distractions, spill their contents. They swirl through the air like the glitter inside a snow globe.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath as the aircraft loses altitude.

“Brace for impact!” the pilot shouts just a second before metal rips outside the window.

Teresa wails. A window shatters. Icy Alaskan wind blows in my face. Strands of my hair stick to my cold cheeks as we spin in the air.

My stomach churns. My heart pounds at a hundred miles an hour.

Finally, the plane crashes, the jagged symphony of thuds, plunks, ripping metal and cracking bones filling the air around me as I toss and bounce in my seat. Something sharp gets lodged in my arm. Something heavy hits my leg. I grip the seatbelt straps so hard the friction burns. My teeth push against each other so hard my gums hurt as my jaw stays clenched.

In all the mayhem and the pain, I pour my desperately hammering heart and my riddled mind into one final silent plea.

Mom...Dad...Anyone...If anyone’s out there, please help me...

In the next instant, something crashes against the side of my skull, the force jamming my eyes open, though I can’t see anything through the red blur. The last thing I hear is a faint voice echoing from a distance before everything goes still and silent.

I WAKE UP TO THE WHISPER of snow kissing the ground, to the crackle of a fire, to the sound of breathing – my own. The scent of fresh coffee, burnt wood and natural pine glide into my nostrils. I am alive.

I force my eyes open. The lids weigh as much as the boulders I see sticking up through the snow outside the window. I turn my head. I am staring up at an unfinished pine ceiling turned the color of sunset by the glow from the fireplace.

Where am I?

As I sit up, the green quilt on top of me slips off, revealing multiple bandages under tattered clothes. I’m injured? I’m not feeling it. Maybe it’s adrenaline. The pain will come later.

Now, I remember. I was on a Cessna over Alaska, on my way to do research for my company but the weather was worse than expected and the aircraft crashed.

I place a hand on my head, recalling having been hit, and find only a few layers of gauze. I examine both my hands. No blood. No cuts. No scars.

I press my palms against my cheeks, heaving a sigh of relief.

I survived.

Thank goodness.

But what about Teresa and the pilot?

I sit up cautiously, mindful of bandages, of unseen injuries. But I have to know. Picking up the quilt from the rug and wrapping it around my shoulders like a cloak, I head out of the room, staggering down a corridor with three doors, moving faster than my feet can get under me.

The first won’t open. A broom and a shovel tumble out of the second one. I shove them back hastily and open the third. A small bedroom. Empty. The blue sheets don’t even have creases and the walls smell faintly of mold. A layer of dust coats the stool in the corner.

I move on to the kitchen, my heart racing after my thoughts. The room is empty. Counters. Appliances. What you would expect to see. But no one is there.

Where are they?

“They didn’t make it.”

I turn so quickly at the sound of the voice that my elbow hits the knife box, the lone knife in it quivering. The quilt around my shoulders slides to my feet.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I stare at the cause of my shock. His muddy tendrils of hair cascade down the sides of his face like a thick curtain, some veiling his eyes, and then trickle past his shoulders, where drops of it are splattered across the pale skin of his bare chest and arms. With just that shroud of hair and a pair of dirty, gray sweatpants on, he could have passed for a beast. Either that or someone sitting on a sidewalk in New York with a handwritten sign and a can for pennies.

Both untrustworthy. Both potentially dangerous.

I’d never even heard him come in.

I glance at the knife in the box, fingers inching closer to it as he comes closer, a mug of coffee in each hand.

The aroma of the beans flows into my nostrils, and on its heels something more interesting – his scent, like an aged bottle of red wine straight from the cellar. Raw, earthy and bold.

Hot.

As he stands in front of me, I finally see the man. The chiseled cheekbones. The strong chin. The broad shoulders. That glorious torso with its firm muscles woven to perfection, two of them disappearing below the waistline of his pants.

Forcing my gaze back up, I meet pitc

h black beads, fragments of a moonless night. The breath I’m not aware I’ve been holding leaves my lips as a gasp.