Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

  The second boar snorted with agitation as it advanced, skirting the thicket and hemming me in. It surveyed me with black, shiny eyes. This was it. I readied my fists for the final assault.

  The boar at my foot yanked viciously as the one to my left charged.

  A shot cracked through the frozen air. The boar to my left stumbled and dropped, its forward momentum from the charge sending it skidding into my side. It shuddered and stared up at me with one black eye.

  Another shot echoed through the trees and the boar at my feet released its hold and backed up a few steps. It turned and started to run, moving like a drunk through the trees. Another shot, and it dropped to the ground with a thud and didn’t move.

  I scooted away from the dying boar and cried out from the searing pain in my leg. The woods swam, the trees no longer straight but becoming wavelengths transmitting my horror. Leaves crunched nearby, and a dark shape approached as I struggled to breathe and keep my eyes open.

  He knelt down and peered at me as words came out of his mouth. I didn’t understand him, though I caught a “fuck” here and there. I couldn’t concentrate, so I stared into his eyes. They were familiar, even in the dark. A steely blue. Like water beneath a stormy sky. My vision fuzzed black at the corners, and then I fell deep into that churning water, a storm raging above me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FIRE BORED THROUGH MY CALF, each lick of flame hotter than the last. I came to on a scream.

  “Great.” The same deep voice from the woods.

  I tried to rub my eyes, but I couldn’t move my hands. The burn intensified as I struggled.

  “Stop moving!” A large palm gripped my thigh, skin to skin.

  Blinking hard, I took a look around. I was in a room, the décor dated. A fan twirled above me, and two wide windows showed me nothing except a reflection of the interior. It was still dark outside.

  The man from the woods bent over my leg, and a flash of searing heat shot through me again. I struggled, but he’d tied me to the bed.

  “Let me go!” I yanked at the rope, but it didn’t give, only dug into my wrists.

  “I said for you to stop fucking moving.” His voice remained calm, cold.

  I couldn’t make out much other than dark brown hair and a plaid shirt over broad shoulders. He didn’t meet my gaze, keeping his face turned toward my calf. He’d rescued me from the boars only to tie me to his bed? Fear churned in my stomach, and I turned my head to the side, afraid I was going to be sick.

  He let out a heavy sigh, and his tone gentled the slightest bit. “Stay still. I’m trying to sew you up.”

  “It hurts.” Tears welled and rolled down my temples. The fear and agony of the woods painted my thoughts a murky color, and I couldn’t seem to think clearly.

  “I can either sew it up or let you bleed out.” He rose to his full height and peered down at me, his eyes so familiar yet so changed from the college photo. He had a short, dark beard and hair that almost brushed his shoulders. Wild. “I’ve cleaned your wounds as best I can. The nearest hospital is an hour away. It was risk you dying to drive you there or this. I chose to keep you alive, though I don’t have a clue why. So don’t fucking move, and I’ll finish what I started.”

  I withered under his fierce gaze as the deep ache in my leg seemed to thump along with my heartbeat. “I don’t know if I can be still.”

  “You have to be.” He bent over, his hair forming a dark curtain between us.

  I pulled on my bindings again. “Untie me.”

  He turned and slammed his fist into the sturdy wooden bed post, his anger swift and surprising. “If you hadn’t been on my land illegally, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I heard screaming. I wanted to help her.” The room began to expand and contract with my breaths. Why didn’t the plaster crack? “She’s in the woods. A woman in pain.”

  “There was no screaming.” He turned to me again, his eyes barely showing through his waves of dark hair. “I would apologize about this, but I’m not sorry.”

  “About wha—” My question turned into a wail as more agony than I thought possible cascaded up my leg, silenced my heart, and drowned my mind in a sea of terror.

  Silence.

  BIRDS. Where did all the birds come from? I cracked my eyes open and stared at the lazy turn of the dusty ceiling fan. Each blade passed by slowly, whispering something to the air right next to it, though I couldn’t make out the secrets.

  My body ached, my leg sending waves of discomfort along with the steady beat of my heart. The shadows of the prior night danced and skittered across my mind—the woods, the boars, and Garrett Blackwood.

  I turned my head to look out the sunny windows.

  The cold woods gave off an innocuous air in the morning light, the oranges and golds trying to lull me into a false sense of security. But I remembered the screams. Something was wrong in those trees, and it wasn’t just my father’s death. Whatever claimed his life seemed to be intent on collecting others as well.

  I tried to sit up, but the throbbing in my leg advised against it. Instead, I raised up on an elbow and gave my body a once over. I still wore my bra, tank top, and underwear. My pants and other layers had been stripped from me. I rested on top of the covers, my body exposed, my turquoise panties on full display. Embarrassment was overtaken by curiosity as I studied Garrett Blackwood’s handiwork. My left leg was carefully bandaged with white gauze, and my right foot had patches of gauze covering the spots where the boar’s teeth had punctured my skin.

  Wincing at the memory, I lay back down and finished my inventory. My hands bore a patchwork of adhesive bandages, and my muscles groaned as I repositioned myself in the bed. I would recover, though I worried about the extensive work he’d done on my left leg. I grabbed my right wrist and felt the slight sting left from the rope. What kind of man ties up an injured person? The rope was gone; he’d cleared away any evidence of my bondage, though the red marks on my wrists left me unsettled.

  A board creaked in the hall, and I grabbed a handful of the quilt beneath me and flipped it over my body. Closing my eyes, I feigned sleep.

  The door opened, and the air in the room changed, became fuller—charged with the heartbeat and movements of another person.

  “I know you’re awake.” The bed sank near my feet.

  “Garrett Blackwood?” I opened my eyes and stared at the man who stared right back. His cold eyes told me nothing, not even whether he was friend or foe.

  “Why were you on my land?” His scruffy beard spread across his gaunt cheekbones, down his throat, and tickled his Adam’s apple with its dark curls.

  “I heard screams. You didn’t hear them?”

  “I sure did.” He narrowed his eyes. “Turned out it was some idiot trespassing girl who couldn’t take care of herself.”

  “No.” I struggled to sit up, ignoring the fire in my calf. “Before that. I heard her.”

  “You didn’t hear anything except your own imagination. And look where that got you.” He extended his long index finger, pointing at my leg.

  I shifted farther up the bed, but groaned at the fresh wave of hell that rocketed along my nerve endings.

  He scratched his jaw, the sound bristly and rough. “Do I need to tie you up again, Red?”

  I stopped moving and glared at him. “My professor will come looking for me. There are others, too. The sheriff—”

  “Has already stopped by early this morning after I called him.” He smirked. “He brought your clothes and personal things from the hotel where you’ve been staying.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the dresser where my overnight case sat. “He came in here to check on you and everything.”

  Color raced into my cheeks, and I swallowed hard. “But I wasn’t wearing any pants.”

  His smirk grew bigger, and he let his gaze slide down my body, his eyes lingering on the quilted patch covering my panties. “No, I suppose you weren’t.”

  “I have to get out
of here.” I scanned the room for my clothes.

  He stood and put his hands on his narrow hips, the sun peeking through the triangles created on either side of his body and exaggerating his V-shape. “Not until your leg heals up.”

  Now that I’d finally found a clue to my father’s death, I couldn’t waste another moment. “No, I have to go—”

  “Let’s get one thing clear.” He stepped closer and glowered down at me. “I don’t want you here. I want nothing to do with you or whatever it is you’re digging for. That’s why I refused to sign your papers.” His glower turned even darker, like a menacing thundercloud. “Remember that?”

  My forgery hadn’t exactly been the best move, but it had led to a major discovery about my father. I wouldn’t regret it, no matter what sort of trouble it led to. I stiffened my spine as best I could. “I remember.”

  “But you trespassed anyway. I should have you arrested.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and backed away a step. “Instead, Sheriff Crow wants you to recover here in the lap of luxury—” A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. “So word doesn’t get out that you didn’t enjoy your time in our fair county. Especially not that you got attacked and almost killed under his watch.” He hung his head, his chin touching his chest and his dark hair catching the light. “Fuck me, this sucks.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” I said with far more bravado than I felt. “I refuse to be held prisoner by a psycho in need of a shower and shave.”

  He laughed, this time the sound rich and sultry. It reverberated inside my chest. Something about it reminded me of the forest, the way the sunrise warmed it but couldn’t quite reach its dark heart.

  “You don’t like my beard?” He sat next to me, much closer this time.

  My pulse ratcheted up, and I took in a quick breath.

  “Well?” He grinned and took my wrist.

  I tried to pull it away, but his grip was like an iron shackle. He eased the back of my hand down his cheek. “Not so bad, is it?”

  It wasn’t. Not exactly soft, it felt thick and masculine. Rich. “What are you doing?” I leaned back until I pressed up against the headboard.

  He moved closer, his woodsy scent a mix of smoke and soap. Maybe he didn’t need a shower after all. I didn’t turn away, not even when his lips were only inches from mine.

  “I just wanted to see.” His eyes flickered to my lips.

  “You’re about to see what a vicious head butt looks like.” My rapid pulse infected my voice, making it quaver.

  “Yeah?” He squeezed my wrist harder. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Fuck you.” I stared into his eyes, searching the stormy irises for some way to solve the enigma of Garrett Blackwood.

  He smirked again, just the slightest quirk of his lips, then leaned back and released my wrist. The air cooled between us, and goose bumps rose along my bare arms.

  “I won’t stay here,” I said as he stood.

  “Wrong.” He shook his head slowly, as if he were disappointed in a small child. “You’ll stay right there until I say you can leave.”

  “I’ll be gone long before then.” I tested my leg, trying to move it to show him I could do it. The scorching pain brought tears to my eyes. I bit them back and stilled. Fuck. “And where’s my car? Did you take it?”

  “Your car?” He scratched his beard and shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Like I said, you aren’t going anywhere.”

  “This is bullshit!” If I could have pummeled something, I would have. “Give me my phone.”

  “Not a chance. And don’t kid yourself, Red. As soon as I can kick your ass out, I will.” He turned and walked to the door, eating up the dark wood floor with his long strides.

  I glared at his retreating back and stifled a litany of curses. They wouldn’t do any good. “My name is Elise.”

  “I’m aware of that, Red.” He shot an amused look over his shoulder as he walked out the door. “I’ll make your breakfast and bring it to you, but just so you know”—His voice floated back to me over the creaking floorboards— “I can’t cook for shit.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  GARRETT HAD BEEN HONEST about his lack of culinary prowess. I struggled through a breakfast of dry eggs and toast. Garrett disappeared while I ate and only showed back up after I’d been finished for half an hour.

  “I have to pee.” I glanced to a door I suspected led to a bathroom.

  He bent over and picked up my tray, then set it on the wide dresser. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

  “What, you never pee?” I fought the awkward, but it began to overwhelm me.

  “Sure, but I can do it all by myself unlike certain nosy little girls.” His smirk was back.

  “A: I’m a grown woman, not a little girl.” My voice rose, irritation winning out over fear. “B: go fuck yourself. C: if you would let me go, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “You forgot D.”

  I blinked, not sure if he was being forward or obtuse. “D?”

  “You really need a D.” He gripped my quilt and yanked it away.

  “Hey!” I reached for it, but my leg flared. I leaned back and took a deep breath, fighting away a wave of nausea.

  “Can you walk?”

  I scowled at him. “Does it look like it?”

  “Pete owes me for this.” He leaned over and, with a surprising gentleness, slid one arm under my back and the other under my thighs.

  “Who’s Pete?”

  “Sheriff Crow.” He lifted me easily and moved toward the bathroom.

  I clutched his shirt as my body adjusted to the change, my blood flowing at different speeds, the nerves in my leg alerting me to the damage in new, torturous ways. “I might be sick.”

  “God, does he owe me.” He stopped and held me as I clenched my eyes shut and tried to fight away the nausea. “Just breathe. Breathe through it. In… out. Come on, match yours to mine.”

  His chest expanded slowly, and I followed, taking a deep breath and letting it out along with him. He stood there, just holding me and breathing for a few moments until I nodded.

  I glanced up at him and was surprised to find concern warring with his irritation. “Thank you. I’m better.”

  “Welcome.” The word was grudging, as if unwanted on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” He moved slowly, gingerly carrying me through the door and into a small en suite. “I have some of the good shit in my room. Should have already thought of that.” He frowned. “Anyway, once your stomach settles down—probably at lunch—I’ll bring you some pills, all right?”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know what he meant by “good shit,” but I would take anything if it would dull my aches.

  He lowered me onto the toilet. I held onto his arms, then let go once I felt sure I wasn’t going to topple over.

  “Your panties.” He stared at the turquoise fabric along my hip.

  “What?” I cocked my head at him.

  “Do you need help taking your panties off?” He said it as if it was no big deal to strip a complete stranger.

  “No.” I shook my head hard enough to bring back the nausea. “I can do that. Just some privacy, please.”

  “Sure.” He backed up, ran into the claw-foot soaking tub, then cleared his throat and left, closing the door behind him.

  He’d been kind. Still gruff and unreadable, but kind all the same. I hadn’t expected that. During my research, I’d looked into everyone connected with Blackwood. Of everyone, Garrett was the hardest to figure. His mother had died when he was ten, his dad when Garrett was twenty-four.

  The parents had a tidy history. Both of them had grown up in the county and married early, Mr. Blackwood rich and Mrs. Blackwood beautiful. They started a family later in life, their first child born when Mrs. Blackwood was forty years old. Other than being a member of the Blackwood family, they had no connection to my father that I could find, especially considering they were already dead when he went missing.

  Their three children were
far more interesting. Lillian, Garrett, and Hart had been the pride of the county. Lillian had won every pageant she’d ever entered, Garrett was praised as the scholar of the family, and Hart was a loveable kid. I’d pored over stories about them from the local newspaper, trying to glean any clues I could. How did they know my father, and what part did they play in his death?

  Though the puzzle pieces were scattered, some of them faded by time, I still had a good idea of how the completed image would look. Somehow I knew that right in the very center, Lillian Blackwood would be staring out at me with bright green eyes and a mischievous smile.

  I SPENT the rest of the morning in bed. Every time I worked up the nerve to try and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the pain stopped me.

  All I could do was watch the fan turn or study the two faded portraits on the walls. The room wasn’t unpleasant, though it needed a good dusting. The light green wallpaper, high ceilings, and dark floors had all the makings of a nice guest room, one that someone had taken time to decorate. I was certain that someone wasn’t Garrett Blackwood.

  Though the house showed its age in spots of cracked plaster and faded curtains, it still felt alive. Why was it that some old houses became dry and dead, the roof falling in and the walls crumbling, while others maintained a heartbeat?

  The house’s age turned out to be an ally, because the floorboards in the hallway creaked without fail. I had been staring out at the sunny day when the sound alerted me to Garrett’s approach.

  “Got your lunch.” He carried a wide plate piled with more food than I could eat in two sittings. Country fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans—all of it hot and setting my taste buds dancing.

  “Who made that?” I arched an eyebrow and wriggled up in the bed.