Savage Cinderella (4 page)

The knife shook in her hand as she unbuttoned
his shirt. Her heart thundered in her chest and the old familiar
knot gripped her stomach. She forced her way past her shaking hands
and focused instead on her breathing, conjuring images of the high
meadow where she felt safe surrounded by the wall of tall pines and
thick shrubbery.

She put the knife down to maneuver his large
and inert body to remove the wet shirt. She noticed he had a thin
chain around his neck but decided to leave it. When her fingers
touched the smooth line of his collar bone, they lingered for a
moment. His beauty struck her like a stone, the traitorous
sensations of warmth pooling in her belly and then turning to acid
as fear took hold. Gritting her teeth to summon her courage, she
moved on.

She reached for the top button of his pants,
and then jerked her hand back as if stung by a hornet. She sank to
the floor and clasped her hands together, all vestiges of control
gone. She rocked like she always did when the bad memories
resurfaced, humming louder than the thoughts that clouded her mind
and threatened to drag her into the darkness. She stopped and moved
away from the bed numerous times, pacing and breathing her way back
to the present moment and the task at hand.

She hated to tie him up, memories of her own
bondage flashing like fresh slashes on old wounds. But she had no
choice. Her safety came first. Once his hands were securely tied
and she was assured that he posed no immediate threat, she talked
herself silently through the motions of removing the rest of the
wet clothing, tended his wounds, and bound his swollen foot. She
detached from her fear and panic as she’d learned to do as a
child.

Brinn faded to the place inside herself where
nothing could reach her. She hummed her familiar tune—the one that
blocked out the ugliness of a world beyond her control. She beat
back the memories that crept to the surface like bony hands from a
grave—bones that formed the monster that still lived in her mind.
She wouldn’t let him have her. She wouldn’t let him take her ever
again.

Brought back to the moment with a start,
Brinn gasped as blood oozed from the cut in her palm. The light of
day sprawled across the floor, scattering the shadows that sought
to swallow her. She dropped her weapon onto the table with a
clatter.

Justin opened his eyes, tried to move, and
then groaned, obviously aware of his injuries and his bondage.
"What's going on? What's the matter?"

A look of confusion and concern spread across
his features when he noticed her frightened expression. Then his
eyes focused on the blood dripping from her hand. “Are you all
right?”

Brinn grabbed a tattered rag on the table and
quickly stanched the flow of blood with firm pressure over the
wound. Her eyes fixed on the bulge beneath the covers. Justin
followed her gaze, his cheeks flushing.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head back.
"Oh, God, I have to pee."

Brinn fumbled and found her words. "It didn't
look like that last night when I took off your clothes,” she
accused. “It looks like a giant toadstool." She eyed the bulge with
suspicion, causing his face to redden deeper. Her arms folded
across her middle, she asked, "Does it grow like that when you’re
planning to hurt someone with it?"

Justin gaped at her, his jaw alternately
dropping and closing—fishlike—as words failed him. When he finally
closed his mouth and met her stare, a sympathetic expression
replaced his look of embarrassment.

"No, of course not. I mean...when a guy first
wakes up in the morning and has to...relieve himself, it can
get...like this."

Brinn bristled. “If you think you can relieve
yourself with me...”

His eyes opened wider as he cut her off.
“No...that’s not what I meant.” He proceeded with his explanation,
his gaze focused on a frayed spot on the quilt that covered him.
"Once I...urinate, pee, whatever you call it, it’ll go away again."
His eyes found hers as he added softly, "I have never used it to
hurt anyone, and I never would."

In a long moment of silent communication, his
velvety brown eyes held her gaze. Seeing only gentleness and
sincerity behind the look, Brinn released her fists to hang at her
sides. She opened them slowly and examined the cut beneath the rag.
She understood the urgent need to release her urine first thing in
the morning. She’d already taken care of her own needs before the
sun had even risen.

She grabbed the knife from the table and
approached the old iron bed with purpose. Mustering her courage
with each step, she let her silent instincts guide her. Justin
flinched at the sight of the sharp blade. The flash of fear on his
face gave Brinn an unexpected spurt of satisfaction—followed
immediately by shame. She sliced through the tightly knotted
leather bonds and watched his hands fall to the mattress, raising a
cloud of dust.

Quickly, she backed away to avoid contact
with the warm, hard body that occupied her bed. She loosened the
sheet around his foot, freeing the splinted appendage, and then
retreated to the far side of the table, nearer to the door. She
wanted as much space between them as she could get. There was no
telling what he would do once freed. The door at her back bolstered
her courage.

Justin gingerly rubbed each wrist in turn. He
shrugged as if removing a cloak of aching tightness from his neck.
He explored the cut on his head and carefully ran his fingers
through the mass of wild brown curls that stuck up in all
directions. Then he sat up, groaning with the effort. The blankets
fell down around his waist. The gray of dawn had faded and sunlight
streamed into the room bathing him in golden light. Brinn’s skin
tingled and she stared in fascination.

Despite the blood-encrusted hair and the
anguished look of pain that lined his features, he had the kindest
eyes she had ever seen. The long, dark lashes and the soft curve of
his brows gave his face a tenderness that made her feel warm each
time he looked at her. His lips curved into a half smile, a dimple
appearing in one of his cheeks as his eyes met hers.

He sat on the edge of the bed, still covered
to the waist, but feet now on the floor, testing his swollen ankle.
He winced and grimaced at the blooming bruises. She studied his
mouth with interest. His teeth were startlingly white behind the
full lips and stood out in contrast to the scruffy shadow of
unshaven cheeks and jaw.

"Do you want me to look at your hand?” he
asked, staring at her fist clenched tight around the bloodied
rag.

She’d nearly forgotten about it. “No. It’s
fine.” She wrapped the makeshift bandage tighter. His gaze lifted
from her hand to her eyes, the captivating dimple deepening with
his smile.

“
Are you ever going to tell
me your name?"

"I’m Brinn," she said, with a moment’s
hesitation.

"Well, Brinn, I'm not sure I can walk on this
ankle on my own, so if you would like to give me back my pants,
I’ll get dressed, and then you can help me outside." His voice was
casual and undemanding but the sound of her name as he said it had
the odd effect of making her want to cry—something she hadn't
allowed herself in a very long time. Collecting her emotions, she
reined in her shaky hands and wobbly knees and made her way to
where she’d hung his clothes by the fire the night before. She
tossed the dry clothes to the young man sitting nearly naked on her
bed. He stared at her for a moment as she stared back.

"I know you’ve already seen all there is to
see, Brinn, but it’s only polite to allow someone to dress in
private."

His smile and the way his eyes lit with
amusement as he looked at her sent a flush of heat to her face. She
nodded briskly and turned away. "I’ll go out and find you a walking
stick." She opened the door, flooding the tiny cabin in warm
morning sunshine, and turned back. "I’ll be back soon. Don’t try to
leave before I return."

“
I'm not going anywhere."
He smiled again, one dark brow arching.

That warm tingly sensation crept its way
across her skin once more. What was it about this stranger that
made her feel this way? The sense of excitement and longing that
settled over her felt uncomfortable but exhilarating all at once.
She couldn’t help but stare at him.

“
Is there something else?”
he asked.

She couldn’t seem to make her mouth work. Her
lips quivered, but nothing came out. Her face grew hot. She went to
a cabinet and pulled down an old, empty pickle jar, and set it on
the table. She used it herself during the winter months when she
didn’t want to walk the thirty feet to the outhouse behind the
cabin in the cold and dark. “In case you can’t... wait,” she
stuttered. He thanked her with a smile and an appreciative nod. At
a loss for anything more useful to say, Brinn tore her eyes away
from him and closed the door behind her.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

He was the most beautiful man she had ever
seen. As she tromped through the woods searching for the perfect
size and shape of walking stick for someone his height, it occurred
to her that she’d never thought of any man as beautiful or
attractive. Old Mr. Hoffman was certainly not a sight to behold
with his bald head and wrinkled skin, and every other man that she
had spied from a distance had made her skin crawl. They either
looked at her with disdain or snickered behind her back. Almost
worse was when they made her feel invisible. There had never been
anyone who looked at her the way Justin Spencer did—as if he saw
her and wanted to know her.

If she could help it, the only close contact
that she had with civilization was her once or twice monthly visits
into town to work at night for Mr. Hoffman. She happily cleaned the
store and stocked shelves in exchange for necessities. Her other
friend, Abby, she saw more infrequently of late. Although her life
of solitude was the life that she knew and accepted, she missed her
visits with Abby, who had left for college last fall and only
returned on holidays and long weekends through the winter.

Brinn hiked along the deer trail. She smiled
as she spied a Juneberry bush filled with succulent fruit. The bush
was nestled into a sunny crag that drew heat from the granite
boulders protecting it from the cool mountain breezes. The berries
were early this year; it would be a warm season. She plucked the
fruit from its stems and popped a handful into her mouth. They were
still tart, but she was famished.

She had missed out on dinner, thanks to her
unwitting houseguest. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sweet
tang of the wild berries and then wiped her mouth on her arm,
streaking it with a purple stain. She filled the leather pouch that
hung at her side, certain that her guest would be hungry as well.
If his size was any indication of his appetite, she would need more
than berries, she mused, popping a few more into her mouth with a
wry grin.

Temporarily sated, she continued on the path,
reminiscing about her friend. She missed Abby so much. She’d been
the first person that Brinn had met after she found herself
wandering the hills and meadows of the high country as a child that
first summer.

When Abby caught her stealing eggs from the
hen-house on the family’s farm, the girls—about the same age—became
instant friends. Abby, blonde, chubby, nearsighted, and awkward,
had few friends, if any, until Brinn came along. She reluctantly
agreed to keep Brinn a secret. The girls met under the willow in
the low meadow on the day of every full moon when weather
permitted.

Whenever Brinn made her way down off the
mountain in desperation and need, Abby provided for her new best
friend as well as any ten-year-old could. Though Brinn appreciated
the clothes, they were always ill fitted—too short in the legs and
too big in the waist. Forced to belt her pants to hold them up, she
learned to take advantage of the convenient place to attach her
knife and collecting pouch.

Abby made a game of supplying her friend with
blankets, candles, matches, and whatever food or necessities she
could pilfer from her parents’ kitchen cabinets. Brinn couldn't
wait to see what new surprises Abby had for her each time she made
the half day’s trip out of the mountains. Sometimes her friend
would have fruit or chocolate or a new hair ribbon—-anything to
brighten Brinn’s otherwise bleak existence.

Most of all, she loved the books that Abby
brought. Over the years, she had collected mountains of them.
Including an Anatomy and Physiology text that Abby had given to her
in an effort to convince her that, despite the onset of her monthly
cycle, she wasn’t going to bleed to death and she wasn’t being
punished for anything she’d done wrong. Brinn discovered that the
regular flow of blood seemed to coincide with the moon cycle—just
like the tides of the oceans—and eventually, her fear about the
changes her body underwent dissipated as her comprehension of the
anatomy text improved.

After this morning’s observations, she might
want to take a closer look at the section of the book that
explained the male anatomy and its function. Obviously, she had a
lot to learn. She grimaced at her misunderstanding with Justin and
kicked a rotted stump that lay across the path, saturated by last
night’s storm.

She’d avoided reading about the male
reproductive organs because she didn’t want to know—didn’t want to
understand. Shaking off the shadow of old memories of the man that
had hurt her, Brinn clenched her fists, reminded of the stinging
cut on her hand. Not all men were bad, but knowing which ones to
trust seemed like an insurmountable problem. She’d watched people
from a distance—-men and women who acted happy to be together and
who shared moments of intimacy that left Brinn confused. Public
displays of such affections as kissing and holding hands sent mixed
signals to her body and mind. Longing and shame vied for
control.