Fable of Happiness (Fable 1)

For a horrible heartbeat, I forgot the past few days. My mind erased the imprisonment, the erotic servitude, the mind-bending sex in the rain. All I saw was a man hiding from a new dawn in my car. I saw him without prior opinions and assessed him as a stranger instead of my enemy, and my arms ached to wrap around him.

I wanted to fill the hollowness in his eyes with happiness. I wanted to be the reason those stern lips smiled. I wanted to hear him laugh. To experience joy and peace because I honestly didn’t think he’d ever been acquainted.

You kissed his hand last night.

You let him into more than just your body, Gem.

I flinched, recalling my moment of weakness. The overwhelming rightness of him inside me, smothering me with his body, driving into me as if I was the only thing that would save him.

Leaning forward, he narrowed his gaze, his attention falling to my exposed breasts.

Heat ignited between us. Familiar need and unfamiliar connection.

In my hazy state between sleep and awake, I gasped in shock.

He’s the man I described on that stupid online dating profile.

Looking for: A man who’s dominant and dangerous. A man who knows how to grant pleasure. A man who knows how to cook and clean. A man who...is a man. A man who will sweep me off my feet but allow me to fly free, all while he makes me come alive beneath his tongue.

Too bad he’s ripped off my wings and stuffed me in a cage instead.

If our circumstances were different—if we’d met in normal ways—I suspected I would never have let him go. I would’ve fallen head over heels. I would’ve threaded my fortune and future with his without a backward glance.

Something inside me knew that.

It was terrifyingly black and white.

I didn’t know why I knew but whenever I looked at him, everyone else paled. First, it’d been because he threatened my life. Now, it was because he threatened everything.

He was pain.

Pain in my heart, my soul, the very core of my common sense.

He stiffened as we stared at each other, waiting for someone to strike. Distrust and unease laced between us, just as strong as our chemistry and desire.

Just because he rivalled any other male I’d met, didn’t mean I willingly accepted the strangeness happening between us.

I still wanted to run.

I would still do everything in my power to be free.

“Did you sleep?” I tipped up my chin, my hands balled in the fleece.

If our eyes weren’t locked, I would’ve missed the tightening of his shoulders. The flare of his nostrils. The flicker of fear in his soul.

In this instance, he wasn’t so easy to read. He was cryptic and coarse, throwing a question back instead of an answer. “Do you always wake so violently?”

I swallowed back my nightmare. He already knew too much about me. He didn’t need to know my mind had spun stories, inserting this scarred, angry man into the agonising role of a child beaten into servitude. “Only when I’m in the company of my jailer.”

His fingers linked tighter together between his legs. “I think I’m more than just your jailer at this point.” His gaze once again dipped down my body, his pupils hot with possession.

I was warm now the sun had risen, but in a flash of defiance, I lifted the blanket to cover my breasts. A cover I didn’t have when I first went to sleep. “You gave me a blanket. You wrapped me up.” I tilted my head. “You stroked my hair and kissed my—”

“You’re mistaken.” Unfolding his legs, he shoved away the empty chocolate wrappers that we’d devoured after he’d taken me on my belly and shot out the tailgate. Sun dappled his bare skin, dancing on silver scars, highlighting sinew and strength.

He was a beautiful man, even with his flaws.

He was rugged and untamed and far too similar to the bears and bobcats that prowled these parks. All he needed were claws and sharp teeth.

Stretching, he bent backward then dropped his hands to rake through his shaggy hair. Without looking back at me, he strode to the trees by the faded ribbon that’d survived the storm and snatched his damp pants from the branches.

Keeping his back to me, he went to put them on but swayed to the side. Stumbling, he tapped the side of his head with his palm as if trying to tune up a fuzzy frequency in his brain. Shaking his head, he tried again, slipping one leg then the other into the rain-wet clothing.

Hoisting them up, he turned and swayed again, his lips twisted and forehead furrowed.

Maybe he’s right that I concussed him.

Was that the reason he hadn’t slept beside me? Why I had the feeling he’d stayed watch all night, whispering to me, revealing pieces of himself that he never would while I was awake?