It’s black. The darkest black I’ve ever experienced.
“Oh God . . .” My voice is clipped and unnatural, the sound of my breathing amplified. There’s no echo to either—the space must be small. I’m terrified to know how small. I keep still, my arms tucked into my body. My heart and breath accelerate in time. It feels as though the walls are closing in around me. It smells damp, feels cold, and the back of my tongue tastes like the sour acid of sick.
Crashes and thumps from the room outside echo in strange, terrifying waves, but I can’t differentiate one violent sound from the next.
“Just breathe,” Beck whispers, close, but I’m not sure how close. He’s to my left, I think. Something crashes against the door with a powerful thud. I jerk away from the sound and feel Beck’s hard shoulder. The door rattles in its frame, bearing the assault of something more vicious this time. The sharp, angry clatter of raining glass rings through the stifled air, filling the space with a brutal shriek of sound. I clamp my hands over my ears, a whimpered whine wheezing in my shallow breath.
“Arden, slow down,” Beck whispers into the back of my head. He places tentative hands on my shoulders, but in the darkness, I don’t have the ability to anticipate his touch. I jerk away from him, and my breathing hitches, the whimper in my throat stronger. Panic thrums in low, shuddering waves, and I close my eyes, hugging myself tight.
“So, you’re not into dark, cramped, enclosed spaces?” Beck asks. His voice is low, barely audible, but definitely to my left. I shake my head, as if he can see me, because my mouth won’t work. The numbness in my fingers skitters up my arms, closing in around my neck like two familiar hands, squeezing. I suck in air through my teeth, over and over again, but my lungs never seem to fill.
“Arden, you’ve got to calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate.” Oh, right. Because telling me to calm down is just magically going to make it happen? But of course, when I try to say this, a pathetic half-sob is what comes out instead.
“I’m going to hold your hand, okay?” he whispers. I nod, and his fingertips brush my forearm. I jump, bumping into the hard stone wall that is much closer to me than it should be. My pulse flies against my neck, and my ribs ache as I struggle to suck in air.
“It’s me. I’ve got you,” he whispers. He lightly presses first his fingertips, then his palms, into my upper arms, and moves closer, the warmth of his body closing in on my exposed skin. “Now, I’m going to take your hand and place it against me.”
“Where?” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper as a sharp pain skewers my ribs.
“On my chest,” he says with a muted chuckle. “Over my heart.” He slides his rough, calloused hand down my arm, applying just the right amount of pressure to soothe. The scratch of his skin cuts through the numbness in mine. He takes my hand and presses it flat against his warm chest, holding it in place with his own.
“Can you feel that?” he asks.
“What?”
“My breath.” My hand rises and falls with the slow, controlled motion of his chest.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Focus on that, okay? You’re doing great. Just stick with me. Breathe when I breathe.” I nod, and he runs his hand down my other arm, placing that hand next to the first. I step into him, and there’s a slight hitch in his breath. I lean back, but he holds me to him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Back to normal. Feel it?”
He’s so calm, so steady. He runs his hands up and down my arms, imbuing me with warmth against the cold, dank cell. I shut my eyes and try to match the rise and fall of his breath. He pulls me in a little closer, so my forearms are flat against his chest, and my own shoulders start to ebb and flow with his.
“Better?”
“Better,” I say, inhaling the soothing scent of leather and citrus.
“Let’s sit down, just in case,” he says, letting go of one arm to move me slightly to the left. “There’s a wall right here. We’re going to sit against it.” I reach out, and the wall is maybe eight inches away. My heart speeds up again, and he squeezes my hand, still held tight against his chest.
“It’s close, but we’re not closed in.” He helps me to the floor. It’s hard and cold, and I’m wishing I had on more than just this ridiculous dress. A violent shudder sends a wave of goosebumps cascading down my back, and my teeth chatter hard enough to hurt.
“Here,” he says, pressing the heavy fabric of his jacket into my hands.
“Thanks,” I say. I try to drape it over my torso, but it doesn’t fall right. He helps me lean forward, then slips the jacket over the back of my shoulders. Between the lingering body heat trapped in the fabric, and the warm citrus scent that now wraps me like a blanket, my shivering stops.
“You can stretch out your legs,” he says. “Maybe don’t point your toes.” My breath catches, as I get a more vivid picture of just how tight this room is. The returning surge of panic spreads from my toes, tightening the muscles in my legs so they won’t stretch, even if I wanted them to.
“Sorry,” Beck says. “That was a bad joke. My legs are extended flat, and there’s plenty of room. Point away.” I hesitate, then slowly stretch out my legs. When I don’t feel anything, I take a deep, shaky breath and point my toes. Still no wall. But the fear of not knowing how much room we have is overwhelming, and I whimper again. Beck takes my hands, turns them over so my palms are up, and then places his wrist in their grip. He curls my fingers, pressing my opposite index and middle finger against his wrist.
“Feel that?” he asks. His pulse is steady and slow, calm and smooth, like a lazy river.
“Yes,” I say. We’re quiet for a few minutes. It’s still dark, but the violence in the nearby room seems to have stopped. There’s no noise beyond our heartbeats, our breath.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“I don’t know—I don’t think so.”
“We’ll get you checked out soon,” he says, sliding his free hand up and down my arm. It sends chills up my shoulder, into my neck.
“You were an asshole.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I knew you’d get mad and run.”
“What?”
He shifts, resituating, and then chuckles under his breath.
“I saw something—someone . . . bad. They’re in the business of . . . acquiring people, and shouldn’t have been here. I wasn’t sure what they were doing, but I suspected it might have something to do with you. And I knew I could make you angry. Press your buttons.”
“So, you made me feel like crap, on purpose, so you could follow me when I ran?” I shake my head.
“Sorry about that. I was worried, and I needed to control the situation,” he says, with a heavy sigh. “I thought that if you ran out of the room, maybe he’d take notice, and I could flush him out. Or at least get you somewhere safe.”
“You really hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice is tender and sincere, like if I poked at it, it would give. “You’re stronger than you think, though. I’ve said things like that to lesser women, and they’ve hit me. You stuck it out until . . . well, until I took a cheap shot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” I don’t respond. Instead, I let his apology intermingle with our steady heartbeats and soft breaths. I close my eyes as his rough fingertips run up and down the inside of my forearm. The motion is soothing and repetitive. It makes me want to sleep. It’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced, and it’s a hard spell to break.
“Did you know I’d come here?”
“I figured you’d run. And I hoped I knew you well enough to follow you when you did.”
“So, you knew this room was here?” I ask, taking a deep breath, drawing the air in through my nose, then out slowly through my lips.
“I knew they existed. I didn’t know if there was one in your room.”
“What if there wasn’t?”
“Oh, come on. You really think Declan would put you in a room without one?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice that fills me with unfamiliar satisfaction, though I feel slightly hollow at the mention of Declan.
“But what if there wasn’t?” I ask. He’s quiet for a moment.
“Then there would have been a fight.” The air absorbs his words, and my pulse quickens again.
“You would’ve fought—”
“Shhh . . .” he whispers, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing air down deep below my belly again. The thump-thump-thump of his pulse steadies me, makes me feel calm and comfortable. I try to remember the last time I felt this calm. It’s not as far back as I would have expected: Beck’s cabin, lemony tea, and a story about the stars.
“Can you tell me another story?” I ask, letting my head fall onto his shoulder. His fingers slow to a stop on my arm, and beneath my temple, he tenses. “If that’s okay?”
“I don’t know if I have a good one.”
“Anything is good,” I say, staring at the black. “Just . . . something to . . .” Focusing on his soothing voice, on his solidness and steady breath, I can almost forget I’m terrified. He sighs, his shoulder softening.
“Have I told you about my family’s farm?”
“No,” I say, smiling. He’s quiet for another minute.
“It’s really beautiful. You wouldn’t think so. It’s so far north, it seems like it would be desolate. But it’s all rolling hills and wildflowers and snow-capped mountains. They mostly raise sheep for the wool, but they also grow some vegetables for themselves and their neighbors. Mostly root vegetables—potatoes, carrots, parsnips. Beets do well. You’d never think you’d miss eating beets two-thirds of the way through a tough winter, but it happens.”
“I’d believe that.” We used to say much the same about the over-abundance of fish and citrus on the peninsula. I don’t want to distract him, though, so I keep those thoughts to myself.
“They grow clover in the spring—the bees there make the best honey—and the fields turn this deep burgundy. It’s so beautiful, just miles and miles of the reddest red against the bluest sky you’ve ever seen,” he says in an almost whisper. His head turns, resting gently against my hair. I don’t move away, and neither does he.
“It sounds beautiful,” I say. “What about their house?”
“It’s a big red farmhouse with white shutters. Really cozy. But when I visit . . .” He stops, and I turn my cheek into his shoulder, taking a deep, soothing breath.
“What happens when you visit?”
“I sleep in the barn,” he says with a soft mix of embarrassment and pride.
“Tell me about the barn,” I say. He slips his wrist out of my fingers, and I feel untethered for the span of a breath. But then he tucks my arm under his, holding my hand between his palms. He’s so warm, it’s like I could melt right into him.
“The barn is huge. It was intended for more animals than they have, and there’s a massive loft above it that’s completely insulated. It doesn’t smell like a barn up there. It’s one big room, with a bathroom and a bed and not much else to see. It has these huge windows on either side, though, east- and west-facing. I love the windows. They all think I’m nuts. The sun is up for most of the day in the summer, so you don’t get much dark for sleeping, but the view is like a dream.
“To the east, you have fields and farms, one rolling into the next as far as you can see, divided only by the color of the crop. And to the west, the fields run for miles and miles, all the way to the mountain range, which is covered in snow year round. In the winter, it’s really too cold to sleep out there, but the skies are unreal at night. You can see every star you’d imagine, and then some. It’s so peaceful. . . . My family thinks it’s weird.”
“I get it,” I say. “It sounds lovely.” We sit quietly for a few moments, leaning against each other in the dark, our breathing synchronized and steady.
“Do you wish you could be there with them?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But I have it pretty good on my own.”
“Do you like your life?” I feel a little silly asking. He’s so obviously embraced the life of a sea captain—hell, he loves it when people call him a pirate.
“I like it enough, I guess.”
“Enough for what?”
“To stop wanting more.” Something familiar tugs at my chest, a bittersweet memory of my voice telling Neve much the same.
“Can you?” I say, gently squeezing his hand. “Stop wanting more, I mean?”
“I don’t know, can you?” He squeezes my fingers back, and I let a small chuckle slip from my chest as I lift my head from his shoulder.
“I don’t really know what I want. I told Declan from the start that I don’t want this. But now . . .”
“Now, what?” he asks. I close my eyes, feel his thumb slide up and down my palm, grazing over where the hornet sting scabbed and the blisters left their scars.
“Now . . . well, it would be so easy to just fall into this.”
“Yes, it would.” His voice is soft, a little thin.
“Not simple, though.”
“No.”
“I’m not what his mother wants. I mean, look at the other girls. They’re so glamorous. And wealthy, and they’re incredibly well-connected. They play the games. They do what they’re supposed to.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he says.
“No, I’m not. They’re all well-dressed, and they know exactly what to do and say. They’re sexy and skilled, and I . . . I’m kind of a mess. She’s had enough of my scandals . . .”
“You’re a fool,” he says, his body shifting. I imagine he’s shaking his head.
“What do you mean? It’s true—”
“No, it’s not. You’re every bit as impressive as they are. You have a quiet confidence that’s intimidating. You are clever, and what you lack in booksmarts, you make up for with stubborn willpower. You are beautiful—the other girls are pretty, sure, but you’re beautiful, inside and out. It’s more than that, though.”
“What is?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper as an unfamiliar warmth radiates from my chest.
“You’re a survivor.” A little laugh slips through my lips, and I bite the edge of my tongue.
“Not this again.”
“It’s important, though. It’s the mountain. You know what’s trivial, and what’s worth fighting for. Declan would be a fool to let you go.” My heart is racing again, thrumming with embarrassed, self-conscious emotion, and I swallow hard.
“Thank you,” I whisper. He turns, placing my hand in his lap. I let him, and rest my head back against the cool wall.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he says. His voice is rough, insistent, and I let his words wash over me. They’re warm and pretty, and they don’t quite fit, but I want so much for them to be mine. I’ve never felt worthy of anything; what must it be like to be too good for someone else?
“Arden?” His voice is soft and pliable, like I could bend it any way I want.
“Yeah?” I ask, turning to face him. His fingers brush my cheek, and then his palm cups my jaw. His lips brush mine, gently, like the whisper of a promise. When I don’t pull away, he presses his lips to mine, but this time, it’s like a question, sweet and uncertain, but hopeful. I answer.
I kiss him back, leaning into the heat that grows like wildfire between us. His calloused fingers stroke my cheek with delicate reverence, as if I could shatter or break at any moment. His tongue teases the seam of my lips, and I yield as a rush of heady warmth pools in my belly. My hands find his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and I cling to the rise and fall of his breath as he tastes me, and I, him. His breath quickens, as does mine, and his fingers thread through my hair, tangling in a knot. He holds me tight against him, as though he never wants to let me go.
A loud thud hits the door, and we push back from each other, both of us panting for air. Another thump sounds, and he tugs me to my feet.
The door convulses to life, sliding open to reveal a cascade of too-bright light. I squint against the assault and drop my gaze. When my eyes have adjusted, I look up to find Declan standing there, eyes narrowed, staring at me in Beck’s coat.