by Vivien Vale
She’s not reachable by the usual means of email or mobile phone. The only time we ever catch up is when she graces my world with her presence, which, as far I’m concerned, isn’t often enough.
Dylan is a different kettle of fish.
Dylan.
There I go, thinking of Dylan again.
Man, oh man. I must really get this guy out of my fucking head.
The minute I get back home I need to find a good therapist for this shit. I’ve avoided seeing someone about it so far, and even though I’ve been managing fine, it might be time to put skeletons to bed.
I mean, if I can’t even go a minute without thinking of the prick, even here in the middle of nowhere, it’s still pretty freaking bad. I’ve tried to do it on my own, but it’s time to face facts: if I want to get that prick out of my head, I’ll need help.
I wonder how I can find a good therapist? There must be someone I know who can give me a recommendation.
Fuck it, I need to stop thinking about this shit. I need to focus on the here and now and try to find out what the hell is going on.
It’s so quiet here. I listen for any signs of the man-bear, or any signs of anything, really, but there’s only silence.
Where is the crazy man-bear person this morning, anyway?
There’s that fear again. Maybe he’s behind me? I spin around, suddenly convinced I can hear breathing.
There’s nothing there.
Emma, I tell myself, take a deep breath and stay calm.
Okay, so this man-bear creature who’s holding me captive could be the same man who set fire to my apartment.
He could be some psychopathic killer, or⸺
I need to stop my thoughts from going any further along this gruesome path. It’s bad enough I’m in this mountain cabin, in the middle of nowhere. I don’t need to imagine some horror movie scenario on top of that.
But, fuck, I can’t help it. I catch a glimpse of the flurrying snow outside, and the sight makes me shiver.
Okay, I’m all alone out here, in some cabin, with no one but a bear-man for company. What if he’s planning to tie me up and beat me to death?
Pain shoots through me at the mere thought. I rub my wrists—I can almost feel the ties there already.
Or worse, maybe he doesn’t want to kill me at all. Maybe he wants to use me as a sex toy.
My imagination is now in total fucking overdrive, going down the worst possible scenarios.
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re being ridiculous.
I take a deep breath and creep along the floorboards. They’re well-oiled and don’t make the usual creaking noise one expects of old floors.
I reach the end of the hallway and peer around the corner.
If I come face to face with the Grizzly⸺my nickname for the crazed man who’s kidnapped me⸺I need to make sure he isn’t armed.
My heart’s beating so fast I fear I might pass out.
From what I can see from where I’m standing, I don’t think anyone’s in the kitchen. I edge forward on my tiptoes, taking my time. My muscles are poised for flight.
If he comes at me with any kind of weapon, I’m going to kick him in the balls and run for it. I’d rather take my chances with the snow than a crazed psychopath.
Of course, there’s no evidence whatso-fucking-ever he’s what I imagine him to be, but I still need to tread with caution.
My eyes dart around the room, eventually fixing on the teapot on the bench. I walk over and grab a cup from the sink.
I’m thirsty. To be honest, I’m hungry too. But I don’t want to rummage around here too much in case it makes Grizzly mad.
The tea is still lukewarm, and I cradle the cup in my hand, staring out the window onto white, white, and more white. As far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but fucking white.
If I hoped for a friendly neighbor to come and visit, finding me held hostage and coming to my rescue, well, that’s not going to happen.
No one could possibly be out there.
No one.
I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I close my eyes. Now I’m hoping this is nothing more than a realistic nightmare. If I count to ten and open my eyes again, I’ll find I’m back in bed in my luxury apartment. The silk sheets will cover me, and the alarm clock will glare at me, demanding I turn it off and get out of bed.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
I open my eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There are no silk sheets, no annoyed alarm clock. There’s just a window covered in icicles and snow as far as the eye can see.
So I don’t burst into tears. I turn away from the window. All that nature and vastness depresses me.
Okay. Let’s try and approach this in a calm manner. Maybe Grizzly’s not a psychopath and does have good intentions.
I mean, if he were one of those mad men, surely he wouldn’t have left me to roam around the cabin. Surely, he would’ve tied my up by now or something.
What’s more, I didn’t sense evil in the man. He looked so wild, so untamed, yet there was something so familiar about him it’s driving me up the wall.
I mean, just look at him. He’s hairy, I mean really fucking hairy, and he’s manly and sexy and looks like a grizzly.
He’s nothing like the men I know. My admirers, of which there are plenty, are tall, thin, wear designer suits and shave twice a day.
Brad, who I dated for about a microsecond, was obsessed with low carb, gluten-free, dairy-free, meat-free, organic soy non-fattening water, wore Calvin Kline boxer briefs and Armani suits, and went to the gym a couple times a week. He wasn’t muscly, and his complexion was a little too milky.
All in all, Brad didn’t do it for me, sexually or intellectually. The man was a total bore was and only able to talk about himself, his golf score, and blah, blah, blah.
Dylan, on the other hand...
Stop. Don’t go down that path. Think about someone else.
My thoughts spin.
Okay, so if I compare Grizzly to Brad, a shiver runs down my spine.
I bet the man eats meat, bread, and potatoes. I also bet he’s never heard of Calvin Klein underwear or Armani suits or any designer label before.
His clothes are like from the last century, if not earlier. I’ve never seen a wardrobe so lacking in style.
Also, I bet bear-man has never set foot into a gym. I mean, there are certainly no gyms to be seen around here, and yet from the little I did get to see of him, he’s fucking sexy and has muscles upon muscles. Dude doesn’t need a gym.
With another sigh, I turn back to the window.
How am I ever going to get out of this place? I don’t want to spend another night here.
Bear-man invades my thoughts yet again.
His eyes. There’s something about those eyes.
My grandmother always believed the eyes are the windows to a person’s soul. To be honest, there was nothing mean or horrible in those chocolate eyes. I felt myself melt on the inside every time those eyes were upon me.
Maybe he’s got a map of the place? There must be a way out of here.
If the snowstorm stops soon, I could maybe just hike out of here. I mean, I got here with grizzly man, so I must be able to leave on my own.
I rub my forehead. Who the fuck am I kidding? There’s no fucking way I can get out of here on my own. I need Grizzly to help me, but somehow, I don’t think he will.
The way he looked at me, studied me, held me, I think he doesn’t want to give me up.
I don’t mean he wants to hold me here against my will. I mean he will confirm what I already know, but don’t want to admit: Right now, I just can’t leave. The weather is against me.
I sigh again.
My thoughts stay with the bear-man. When I first saw him, I thought he was a fucking bear: tall, big, hairy—so fucking hairy—and so strong.
Deep within me, a little flame flickers. There’s no doubt about it, the man d
oes strange things to me. He leaves me confused and unable to think straight.
I hear something from the other side of the room, and I turn around.
And I shriek.
And then I realize who’s there.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
I try to slow my speeding heart rate. It’s uncanny how much he looks like a fucking bear.
And yet, as he stands there in the dark, wooden doorframe, he oozes manliness and animal magnetism. I want to walk over and run my hands down his broad chest, steel abs, and tree-trunk thighs.
I can’t explain the stirring between my legs. I haven’t felt like this in a very long time...if ever.
I hope he doesn’t see the effect he has on me. Already, my cheeks are going red. I quickly drop my gaze and study the color of the wooden floor intently.
If he had devious intentions, I might just be a willing participant⸺and this annoys the fucking hell out of me.
I can’t believe I’m even thinking like this. The sooner I get out of here the better.
Chapter 7
Dylan
I wasn’t expecting her to be standing in the kitchen.
Her high, piercing shriek nearly ruptures my fucking eardrum, sending a chill through my bones. Not even running naked through the snow would give me a chill like that.
My ears are still ringing after she stops.
Fucking hell. The girl has one powerful set of lungs and sure knows how to use them.
While most of my senses are still recovering from that shriek, my eyes are totally fucking glued to her body.
I frown, scratch my head, and try not to stare.
Really, there’s absolutely no reason to stare. Her tits, her hips and her ass are all covered, hidden by my massive red and black checkered flannel shirt.
On me, the shirt is always a little tight around the shoulders, but on Emma, the shoulders are down by her elbows. The damn thing is so big it looks like she’s wearing a fucking tent instead of one of my shirts.
As my gaze travels from the top of her head all the way down to her feet, I catch a glimpse of the black pants I gave her last night. I can’t see much of them, since the shirt nearly goes all the way down to her ankles.
If she would’ve asked me, I would’ve told her not to even bother with those pants. They’re rolled to a thick sausage at the bottom of her legs, seeing as how they’re about several miles too long for her. I have no fucking idea how she’s keeping them up around her waist.
Her feet are bare, and I can see she’s painted her toenails pink. Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Pink fucking nail polish.
At first glance, the whole picture is a bit of a sorry sight. It’s not just the clothes, either. The soot that’s still all over her hair and face isn’t helping much.
But as I stare at her, she’s still starting to look incredibly sexy. No amount of soot or ill-fitting clothes could cover that up for long.
Her puppy eyes briefly meet mine, and I see a jumble of emotions. She drops her gaze, but I keep mine on her.
I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with me, but I could stare at Emma dressed like this forever.
Briefly, I imagine her perfect tits hidden in the bulk of flannel, her pussy buried under flannel and cotton, and her curves so inaccessible and yet so close.
To my annoyance, my fucking cock is stirring. The last thing I need to add to my growing fucking pile of problems is a fucking hard-on right now.
Come on Dylan, I admonish myself. Think of something else. And stop fucking staring and undressing her with your eyes, for fuck sake.
I clear my throat.
“You’re up.” Smooth, Dylan, real nice. “Good morning.” A little better, but she’s throwing grenades at me with those gorgeous, perfect, cloudless princess-blue eyes of hers.
“How does breakfast sound?” I ask. Maybe it’s time for me to stop.
Emma’s eyes lose some of their hostility, and for a brief moment, they widen in surprise.
“Well…I can’t cook.” Emma punctuates her response by sticking her chin out defiantly. She’s clearly confused about what I’m offering.
“Lucky for you, I can,” I reply, walking over to the stove where Emma’s standing. I wrap my fingers around her shoulders and gently move her out of the way. “You can watch from over here.”
First thing’s first: I start boiling a kettle of water and put together fresh mix of tea leaves to brew. After all Emma’s been through, I’m sure she could use a hot cup of tea—and not that lukewarm crap from last night.
As the tea brews, I start getting together ingredients to cook a really good breakfast to go with it.
“You’re not one of those vegans?” I ask, unwrapping a slab of bacon to cut a few thick slices. Bacon should be thick—I could never stand the paper-thin excuse for bacon you find at the supermarket. “Or on one of those gluten-free, wheat-free, fat-free, food-free organic water diets?”
I watch as she shakes her head and the corner of her lips curl up a little. I nearly got a smile out of her.
“Eggs okay?” I ask. “They’re fresh.”
Again, Emma only nods. I’m only making breakfast, the same thing I do every damn morning, but she seems to be mesmerized by every move I make.
“Where…” Emma starts a question but stops herself after one word.
Either this ordeal has left her shaken to the core, or Emma’s changed in more ways than I’ve realized. This is not the feisty, ready-to-argue-any-point Emma I know from the past.
“I keep chickens in a coop,” I reply, assuming she was about to ask where I get fresh eggs.
I watch Emma digest this. A frown appears, and her forehead creases, making her look a bit angry. I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that wants to walk over to her and kiss those wrinkles away.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to do that, of course.
Get a grip, Dylan, I remind myself.
With one hand, I crack open the first egg and empty into a bowl in a quick, fluid movement.
“Scrambled or fried?”
I like mine scrambled, and I haven’t made eggs any other way in years, but I want to give Emma the option.
“Uh…” She’s staring at me, her lips are parted a little, and I think I can see the tip of her tongue. “Well, what, I mean…however you’re having yours,” she finally blurts out.
“Scrambled it is.”
With my trusty whisk in hand, I beat the eggs, watching the egg yolk and white in perfect harmony. I whisk vigorously, making sure enough air gets in, and they end up as light and fluffy as scrambled eggs should be.
I rummage around my pantry, finding the salt and pepper.
Next, I heat some oil for the bacon in my blackened frying pan. I can’t add the raw bacon until the oil is sizzling, or else it won’t fry properly. I wait patiently until that oil’s sizzling good and proper before adding the thick slabs I’ve cut for our breakfast.
When I turn around to grab my tongs, I notice Emma watching me intently. Our eyes meet for about a nanosecond, then she quickly drops her gaze.
Part of me is still surprised she hasn’t acknowledged who I am. She still hasn’t called me by my name, and she doesn’t really seem to recognize me at all.
I turn up the flame on the stove. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t slowly fry bacon—unless you’re trying to ruin it for some reason.
With the bacon sizzling over one burner, I pour the egg mixture into another pan and turn on the heat.
“Where...” I hear Emma start another question, and I turn to look at her. My insides tighten, and I raise an eyebrow to show I’m listening. “Where do you get your bacon? Do you kill your own pig?”
I laugh and turn my attention back to cooking.
“I traded some bear skin for bacon. If you know how to look after it, you can keep it for several weeks without a problem.”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see her nod. She seems to be chewing on the bottom of her lip, something I’ve known her to d
o when she’s nervous. I wonder what she’s nervous about?
The soft egg mixture is setting in the pan, and I turn off the flame. The bacon will need about another sixty seconds, so I use the time to pour Emma a fresh mug of tea.
I hold the mug out to Emma.
When she takes the hot steamy mug from my hand, our skin touches for the tiniest moment, causing Emma to flinch and pull her hand away as if she’s been electrocuted.
I grimace. Typical.
Emma never liked me in the past, and it’s not going to be any different out here in the wilderness in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I glance at her, but her eyes are still downcast. She’s gone from lost puppy to frightened deer.
If things were different, I’d go over and wrap my arm around her. I’d kiss her on her neck and whisper sweet nothings in her ear to reassure her everything is going to be alright.
“Is something burning?”
Her soft question rouses me out of my daydreaming.
“Fuck,” I growl, and lift the bacon out of the pan.
I inspect it—luckily it’s not burnt, yet. The edges are tiny bit darker than I usually like, bordering on black.
Oh well. I divide the semi-burnt bacon and scrambled eggs between two plates.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce, carrying the plates to the table and setting them down.
I pull a chair out for Emma and sit across from her.
It’s difficult to focus on eating. I find myself staring at Emma as her manicured fingers handle her knife and fork as she cuts a small piece of meat. She brings it up to her mouth, and I can’t ignore the sight of her lips as they open, her tongue poking out a little as she makes room for her mouthful of food.
Emma swallows, closes her eyes, then takes another mouthful.
“This is very good,” Emma says. “Thank you.”
My mouth suddenly feels really dry, as if I’ve spent a week, or five years, in the desert with no water.
“No problem,” I mumble and take another bite of eggs.
“So, could you tell me exactly what happened again last night?”
“Fire,” I grunt.
