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I hear his boots thud against the floorboards as he approaches. Then the clink of metal as something is placed beside the cage. I don’t move. I don’t even look.

“Still got attitude?”

I don’t answer. Not out of defiance this time, but because I don’t trust my voice not to tremble. I don’t want to give him that.

“Eat,” he orders. “Then, we’re gonna go wash you up.”

I sigh. Low. Resigned. I don’t even argue.

I reach for the plate and see a nice-sized chunk of steak. I have no idea what kind. Could be a deer. Could be a person. But at least he cooked it. A win is a win.

I tear into it like an animal, fingers greasy, meat juices dripping down my chin. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as he watches me quietly.

Always watching.

“Good girl.”

The key slides into the lock. A sharp metallic click. One turn, and the cage creaks open.

He grabs my upper arm—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to remind me I go where he says I go.

He drags me outside into the thick summer heat. The sun is low, but the air still clings to my skin like syrup. It smells like remnants of smoke and pine and him. The trees hum with cicadas, which stuns me for a second—the beasts must be far then.

The “shower” waits around the back of the cabin. The old wooden platform with rough planks, rotting a little at the edges. Above it, the rust-stained metal drum, patched with duct tape, sunlight glinting off the water inside.

I notice there’s a rug. A body wash—the same kind that I used at home, the expensive stuff. A toothbrush and toothpaste sit in a cup in the corner.

Then, the terror settles in.

He prepared this for me.

How long has he been planning to kidnap me?

“Step up,” he commands.

I obey. I hate that I obey.

The wood under my feet is sun-warmed, almost burning, and the rope dangles beside me like a noose.

He yanks at it, and a brutal gush of cold water crashes over my head, drenching me instantly. I gasp, shoulders jolting. It’s not freezing, not really, but after hours in that cage, it’s a shock straight to the bone.

He says nothing as I stand there, shivering. The water drips from my lashes, my lips, the ends of my hair. My skin pebbles. My nipples harden. My thighs tense.

I don’t look at him, but I feel him—muscle and menace pressed right against my back. His clothes are getting soaked, but he doesn’t seem to care. The rough texture of his jeans rubs against the backs of my thighs.

His soapy palms drag across my scalp, fingers massage, lathering. It should feel clinical. It doesn’t. He works slow, kneading. Down my neck, across my shoulders, between my shoulder blades. His hands are big, rough, used to controlling—breaking—things.

They glide lower. Across my back. My ribs. Then they’re on my breasts.

He lingers too long.

His touch changes.

Slower. Deliberate.

Palming. Pressing. Rolling.

His palm glides down my belly, rough calluses scraping across the hypersensitive skin just above my pelvis. My muscles flinch.

I try to twist away, but his grip clamps around my waist, bruising-tight. His other hand snakes down between my legs before I can close them.

I press my thighs together in protest, but he shoves his knee between them, prying me open.

“Spread your fucking legs.”

The order is a blade against my throat. I shake my head, but he doesn’t wait—he wrenches my thigh open, his thumb pressing hard against my clit. A sharp gasp tears out of me.

God, no!

I’m raw there, swollen from last night. But his touch doesn’t care. His touch hunts. It knows what it’s doing. I jerk as a bolt of unwanted heat shoots straight to my core, and he chuckles.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock admiration, dragging his fingertip down my slit, slow and filthy. “All puffy and red. Still wet for me even when you’re sore.”

“It’s just—ah!—just water,” I pant, but my voice cracks as his fingers circle my entrance, teasing, testing.

“Liar.” He pushes two fingers inside without warning, and I cry out, back arching. My body clenches around him, betraying me instantly. Shame burns through my veins.

I slap at his wrist, nails raking over his skin, but he just laughs, low and dark, curling his fingers.

A whimper escapes me. My hips rock, seeking more, and horror floods me.

“See?” He pumps his fingers lazily, watching my face. “Your cunt knows what it wants. Even when you’re fighting me.”

Horror and pleasure coil together, twisting my stomach. I can’t… I can’t let this happen again.

I lunge sideways, scrambling off the platform, but he’s faster. His arm locks around my waist in an iron grip, hauling me back against him.

“Oh, Bunny,” he purrs, fingers still buried inside me, “you really think you can run? Where you gonna go?”

I thrash, kicking back, my heel connecting with his shin. He grunts but doesn’t let go—just yanks me harder, his free hand fisting in my hair. Pain sparks across my scalp as he drags my head back, forcing me to look at him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Every fucking inch of you.”

I spit on his stupid mask.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at me in silence. Then he rasps, in that rough gravel of his, “You don’t learn, do you?”

Before I can react, he lifts me like I weigh nothing, throwing me over his shoulder. I scream, pounding my fists against his back, but he just walks, unfazed, one arm clamped around my thighs to keep me pinned.

“Let me go, you sick bastard!” I writhe, hitting him harder, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“You had your chance to behave,” he says, voice chillingly calm. “Now? Now I’m going to show you what happens when you disobey me.”

The cabin door looms ahead, and my pulse roars in my ears. How much worse can it get?

He adjusts his grip, fingers biting into the back of my thigh. “And I’ve been dying to punish you, Bunny.”