Page 7 of The Fire Went Wild (Hunter’s Heart #2)

CHAPTER SIX

CHARLOTTE

I ’m startled when I open my eyes and the room’s not dark anymore. It means I fell asleep somehow. I’m chained to a bed in a madman’s house, and I still fell asleep.

I sit up, blinking the bleariness from my eyes. The thick velvet curtains block out most of the morning’s sunlight, but plenty of it streams around the edges, illuminating the motes of dust floating around like stars. The room looks less intimidating in the daylight, I will say that. Shabby and dusty and faded, rather than some gothic nightmare. I get a better look at that mannequin in the corner, too—it’s armless and headless and painted black, and someone’s glued bones around it like a cage. I can’t tell what kind of bones.

Animals, hopefully.

I do mixed media, Jaxon told me back when he was just a hot weird guy and not a psychopath. I shiver.

I have to pee, and I remember the other thing Jaxon told me, about the chamber pot under the bed. As much as I really don’t want to use it, I guess I don’t have a choice. I sit up, moving cautiously, and crawl off the bed. My head doesn’t hurt as bad as it did last night, although there’s a deep-rooted ache in my rib cage. From the car crash, I guess. The airbag exploding in my face.

I slide off the bed, and that’s when I notice something new in the room: a little folding table with a plastic lawn chair beside it. There’s a bowl on the table, too. I regard it with suspicion while I crouch down to see if Jaxon lied about the chamber pot.

He didn’t.

It takes me a few minutes to get situated, but I manage to use the stupid thing. He even left a roll of toilet paper sitting beside it. How thoughtful.

I slide it back under the bed as carefully as possible, harboring thoughts of throwing its contents on him when he comes in here again. Throwing it on him, and then—the next steps don’t materialize. I’d still be chained up, and he’d be pissed off. He’d also see what I was going to do from a mile away, given the way he reacted to me trying to kick him in the balls last night.

That’s not something a human like you should have ever seen.

The last thing he said to me materializes unbidden in my thoughts. He’s crazy. That’s all it means. He’s obviously fucking crazy.

He probably killed Edie.

That’s a thought I’ve been worrying about since last night. She was near that sigil. He admitted to me he recognized it, albeit in that weird, creepy way. Now she’s gone.

Granted, I’m currently a thousand miles away from where Edie disappeared. He must have gone there. She said she was staying with a friend, and I wonder, for the first time, if that friend was really Jaxon. She’d been willing to lie to me about leaving the cabin. Why not that this, too?

“Why’d you do it?” I whisper, sinking onto the mattress. Tears prick at my eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on?”

But Edie, wherever she is, doesn’t answer.

I sit with my sadness for a little while, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. Then I wipe my tears away and stand up. I’m not going to die here. Maybe I won’t throw my piss on Jaxon, but I have to do something .

So I go investigate the table since it definitely wasn’t here last night when Jaxon wrestled me to the ground with his surprising strength. I can’t believe I slept through him setting it up, and the thought uncurls a dark discomfort in my chest. Because what else might I have slept through?

Not there’s any evidence that he did anything like that. A small relief, I suppose.

As it turns out, the bowl on the table is filled with oatmeal, congealing in the cool air of the room. It actually looks kind of good; there are pecans and strawberries and mini chocolate chips sprinkled on top. A pitcher of water, an empty glass. I frown at the setting. Hadn’t he said he’d bring me breakfast if I got quiet? Expect I hadn’t got quiet.

Until you fell asleep .

That irritates me, that I gave him what he wanted. So even though I’m hungry and my throat is dry, I don’t touch any of the food or water.

But then I see something else on the table that leaves me feeling cold and shivery. A yellow sundress.

My yellow sundress, the one I distinctly remember throwing in my luggage back in California. It’s currently folded up as neat as a store display on the lawn chair. My bra sits on top of it.

The motherfucker went through my suitcase.

Went through my suitcase to, apparently, bring me a change of clothes, but still.

Something about the clothes makes me feel even more suspicious. Why the hell is he being nice? I’m his prisoner. He thinks he can’t kill me for whatever fucking reasons, but I’m still chained up in here.

I won’t touch anything on the table. No way. Absolutely not.

I move around the rest of the room instead, the chain dragging behind me. It has enough slack that I can touch every wall except the one with the door. I spent a few minutes studying the weird mannequin sculpture, just long enough to determine that the bones have been epoxied into place and I won’t be able to pry one off to use as a weapon.

Long enough, too, to see how big they are. How familiar. Bones I’ve seen in high school science textbooks and doctor’s offices.

I pull away from the mannequin, my skin crawling, trying not to think about why that thing is in here. A warning of what he’s doing to do to me?

I can’t kill you , he said, but what happens when he decides he can?

No. Nope. I will get out of this before then. I’ll find out what he did to Edie, and I’ll get the fuck out of here.

I investigate the curtains next. They’re thick and dusty, and when I push them open, I’m disappointed by the sight of the thick metal bars caging in the windows. I peer through the glass, trying to get a sense of place. I’m on a second floor, that much is clear. Directly beneath me is an overgrown garden, thorny dead roses competing for space with wild shrubs. A few yards from the house is a metal shed, although it’s hard to make out any details through the window’s ancient glass, everything wavy and distorted.

Other than than that, the house is surrounded by the lush, verdant tangle of the Louisiana swamp.

I tug on the window. It won’t budge.

“They’re painted shut.”

I shriek when I hear Jaxon’s voice and jerk away from the window, chain rattling, to find him standing in the doorway. Neatly dressed, long hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Barefoot. Something about him reminds me of a jaguar or a panther—a big, sleek, dangerous cat.

“Okay.” I hate that he caught me unaware.

“Even if you could open them,” he continues, “nobody will hear you scream. This is the only house for ten miles. We’re in the middle of the marsh. It’s mostly wetlands.”

“Thanks for the ecology lesson.” Why the fuck am I doing this? Sassing him? It’s like I can’t stop myself the second I see him.

“If you want an ecology lesson,” he says coolly, “I’m happy to give you one. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that. I can’t tell if he’s joking. Or if it’s some kind of veiled threat.

And his handsome face doesn’t give anything away, either.

“I don’t want an ecology lesson,” I snap. “I want to know what you did to Edie Hensner.”

That does get a reaction. A coldness washes over his features, and his mouth draws tight and thin. “I didn’t do anything to her.”

“But you recognized her name.”

His expression turns even colder. Cold enough that fear curls around in me, strangling out the bravery that’s gotten me this far. I’m glad I’m on the other side of the room from him. And glad he stays put in the doorway.

“You didn’t eat the breakfast I brought you,” he says.

He’s changing the subject away from Edie, which just makes skin prickle with icy fear. “If you killed Edie, why don’t you just say so?” For the first time, my voice comes out shaky. I think it’s because, for the first time, I’ve found a topic of conversation that feels genuinely dangerous.

Jaxon fixes his eyes on me, and it’s like they’re burning through my skin. I press against the wall, my feet tangling up in the curtain.

“You’re asking the wrong questions about Edie Hensner,” he finally says, and his voice is flat.

I don’t really understand what he means.

Before I can respond, though, he points at the table. “Why didn’t you eat the oatmeal?”

Because you’re a psychotic killer and fuck knows what’s in it . But with that sharp deadliness radiating off him, I bite my tongue and instead say, “I’m not hungry.”

Jaxon narrows his eyes. “I made it for you.”

All the more reason not to eat it, as far as I’m concerned. Still, I just repeat myself. “I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t change, either.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Hard to change with my foot chained to the bed.”

“That’s why I brought you a dress.”

Then he steps backward, slams the door, and leaves me alone in the room once again.