Page 23

A n unspecified amount of time later, my consciousness returns. Not all at once, but in sluggish, disjointed pieces, like my brain has to reboot before I can process reality again. It amazes me that I’m even still alive after everything my body has taken over the past days.

I hear his slow, wet chewing, like he’s taking his sweet time gnawing through something tough and sinewy, and it makes my skin crawl. My eyes blink open at him, where he sits by the fire just outside of the cage, and—yep. The bear is almost gone.

Its fur has been ripped away, skinned, and haphazardly tossed over the iron bars, hanging on display to dry by the flames.

How I wish I could do that to Yeti himself.

Or do I?

The violent thought should bring me satisfaction, but instead, it sits strangely in my chest, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

I sink into the furs below me, massaging my numb arms after being restrained for so long. I may be back in the cage, but at least the rope and shackles are gone.

Noticing that I’m awake, he tears off a hefty chunk of meat and roasts it over the flames, then—like he’s a fucking Michelin star chef—serves it to me with a smug expression on his alien face.

I eat without complaining, and as I chew, I catch the slight curl of his lips and the twisted gleam in his dark eyes.

Oh, he’s proud of himself. As if I should be grateful that he killed an apex predator with his bare hands for me, not realizing he, himself, is the predator I fear the most. A round of applause for him.

Typical alpha male shit. They really are all the same, no matter what species. If Yeti were a modern-day man, I guarantee he’d have a podcast about how females don’t respect “real men” and traditional values anymore.

The dude is a walking red flag. I could blame his behavior on the whole “beast of the wild” shtick, but honestly? He seems pretty fucking comprehend when he wants to be. I think he just likes me weak. Dependent. Easy to control .

And yet, as my gaze flickers lower, I notice something else.

The deep slash I left on his chest, the jagged wound torn into his fur, his skin still slick with drying blood. And tell me why the hell I feel bad?

Before I can slap some sense into me, my hand moves on its own, slipping past the bars of the cage. My fingers barely brush against the torn flesh, but the moment my skin makes contact, he hisses and jerks back.

I hate that I even give a fuck. Why do I care when I hate him so much? Why do I feel guilty for hurting him when he’s done so much worse to me?

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, as if apologizing to a literal monster makes any sense. I motion a vague washing gesture in some stupid attempt to offer to tend to his wounds.

What’s the matter with me? It’s like my mind is screaming one thing, but my body—traitorous thing that it is—is on some completely different wavelength.

He’s a killer. A feral, flesh-eating, kidnapping psychopath. And yet, here I am, acting like some concerned wife in a period drama because some sick, twisted part of me wants to take care of him.

I laugh maniacally at the thought.

He watches me in silence for an agonizingly long moment, his eerie, inhuman eyes assessing me like he’s trying to make sense of my insanity.

“Fine. Be wounded, then. See if I care,” I say, pretending that his lack of trust doesn’t affect me. But it does. More than I’m willing to admit. I manipulated him, and he may not understand words, but he for sure understands that.

I give up and focus back on my food, but as soon as I finish the last bite, the cage creaks open.

Yeti moves in fast, sweeping me off my feet, and I yelp in surprise, instinctively clutching onto him.

He carries me, cradled against his furred chest, through the dark, twisting tunnel leading farther into the mountain.

We emerge into the cavern’s vast opening.

Sunlight slices through the jagged mountain peaks, spilling down from the gaping ceiling above.

A river cascades into a natural pond, its water so clear it looks like glass, the surface shimmering and reflecting the tiny rainbows cast by the hanging icicles in the sun

Icicles … I shiver at the memory, knowing damn well I’ll never be able to look at ice the same.

This must be where he gets the fresh water from and where he washes himself. It looks unreal, almost magical, like an oasis in this frozen hellscape.

The realization immediately unsettles me—I shouldn’t be seeing beauty here, shouldn’t be appreciating anything about this place.

I miss the ocean. Palm trees. Human contact.

Yeti puts me down and walks knee-deep into the water like the freezing temperature is nothing to him. He starts cleaning his wounds, and against every ounce of common sense I have left, I find myself inching closer to help.

I dip my toes in, and immediate regret settles in. It’s cold as fuck—I’m talking, your-ancestors-didn’t-survive-the-Ice-Age level of glacier-fed cold here.

But then I remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a real bath. Sure, he cleans me himself—but that’s not exactly the same as scrubbing the dirt off my own damn body.

Before I can decide if I’m really about to risk hypothermia, there’s a blur of movement. And suddenly, I’m airborne.

My shriek dies in the air as I hit the water, and my body gets assaulted by what feels like a million tiny knives stabbing me from every angle.

Desperately, I push myself to the surface, gasping. “You son of a bitch!” I scream, threading water despite my muscles screaming in protest, but my words come out as a chattering mess.

His humongous frame shakes while a deep rumble rolls through his chest.

Wait .

Is he… laughing?

Oh, no. Absolutely fucking not.

Yeti—the eldritch horror of my nightmares—just yeeted me into the abyss and is now laughing about it.

I glare at him, but I can’t even focus properly because my limbs are already going numb. I try to swim, I really do, but what’s the point?

Maybe it’s best if I give up.

Let’s face it—nobody is coming. This is my life now.

He’ll keep fucking me, using me, until he gets bored.

And then? He’ll do what he’s done before.

Tear me apart. Scatter my bones among the others.

I’ll be nothing but another trophy in his collection, a nameless skull buried in his lair of torture.

I can end this right here, right now.

There’s no reason for me to fight. My friends are gone. My beautiful boyfriend is gone. And I defiled their memory—I let the monster that murdered them claim me.

Worse, I let myself want it.

I enjoyed it.

I deserve to die.

So I stop fighting.

The water has no mercy. The moment I surrender, it drags me under like it’s been waiting for this. The freezing depths wrap around me, punching the air from my lungs, stealing the last of my warmth. It’s a different kind of pain—one that comes with relief.

I remember how alive I felt just days ago. The laughter, the love, the safety of a world that no longer exists—not for me, at least.

Now… there’s only silence.

Only darkness.

Then, I feel it—his claws.

They clamp tightly around my arm, sharp and unrelenting, yanking me back above the surface like a hooked fish. The water that was swallowing me whole is suddenly gone, replaced by the bitter sting of air, of life I no longer wanted.

This motherfucker won’t even let me die in peace.

Everything has to be on his terms. Of course it does.

I choke, coughing up freezing water as my body betrays me, gasping, heaving, fighting for breath I never wanted to take. My limbs are useless, heavy with exhaustion, with defeat as he drags me back to the reality I was so ready to leave.

I don’t have the strength to resist.

Maybe I never did.

I tried everything. I have no more in me. There’s nothing left but to submit to the beast.

I gasp as we hit the tiniest strip of sand, my frozen fingers clawing at his thick fur, seeking warmth without even thinking.

It’s just raw instinct , I tell myself.

For some reason, however, that warmth—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the beating of his heart under my fingertips—is more comforting than it should be. And while I’m freezing, he’s the only thing keeping me warm.

I need him. That’s the part that scares me the most.

I hate that.

I hate myself for feeling it.

But my body clings to the heat anyway. Despite everything, it’s almost… soothing . That realization repulses me, but his warmth seeps into me. Slow at first, then all at once, like stepping into a burning room after being lost in the snow.

Like coming back home.

I’m so confused. He can be cruel when I disobey. Ruthless, even. Just yesterday, he showed me no mercy as he punished me. He looks after me, though, doesn’t he?

I wouldn’t survive five seconds out here without him. I lost count of how many times he’s saved me. Is that why he feels like my whole world now ?

God, I don’t want this. I can’t want this.

Him.

But when his dark gaze locks onto mine, something inside me cracks.

For a moment, those wild eyes seem human, or perhaps it’s just my loneliness playing fucking tricks on me.

Yet, as his massive body looms over me, there’s something almost playful in the way he watches me shiver—I’m not sure if it’s still from cold or…

Damn him, he probably knows me better than I know myself. He’s the one who shattered me, after all. He understands the pieces, rearranging them back together however he wishes.

As much as it disgusts me, my hands roam freely across his firm pecs, gliding gently around the ripped skin before moving lower onto those powerful, chiseled abs.

They contract met with my touch, and he hums at the caress.

I can feel the growing bulge of his cock against my thigh.

I angle my hips, letting him closer, as my hands slide over his carved back, ruffling his fur until they reach his neck.

He lowers his head, and his ribbed tongue flicks out, tasting the skin along my throat.