I was reborn in that moment, burst into flames like a phoenix and floating in pieces to the ground. There was scorching pain and hope for a future unknown. I felt his cock pulse in my mouth, felt the seed flow down my throat, filling me up and keeping me warm—giving me sustenance to rise up from the ashes.

He released me, pulling his erect cock from my mouth and curving his body around mine as if to protect me, but from what? From him, came the answer deep inside me. Tears slipped down my cheeks—no longer mine. His.

“Your story,” he said hoarsely. “The book got it wrong.”

“What?” My tongue was heavy in my mouth, half-drugged on euphoria.

“It’s an old Native American legend but the explorers who came through changed it to make the natives seem more barbaric.”

I tensed. He had known the story all along? It made me wonder what else he’d kept quiet about. His breath puffed against my neck where his face was buried.

Dread filled me. “So what really happened?”

He murmured the words so rapidly. They washed over me like rushing water.

“She wasn’t running away from being a sacrifice, she was going off to kill herself. That’s the girl you identified with, that you saw as yourself. She was going away to die.”

Pain clenched my heart. It didn’t matter, some story that had been told and retold hundreds of years ago. It had nothing to do with me and yet everything. She’d had the courage to run away, and that had bolstered me to do the same on my birthday weeks ago.

The truth was she’d given up. Whatever had happened in her life had been too heavy, and she’d sought the end over a waterfall. It made me wonder if I should have done the same.

It made me wonder if I already had.

How did he even know this story? He’d claimed not to. Or had he? I asked if he knew it, and he’d asked why he would.

Not a denial.

He presented himself as a crude, cold trucker, and it wasn’t that hard to believe. But sometimes, a certain light would shine in his eyes, something intelligent and burning bright, and I was convinced he was faking it. There was nothing to say a trucker couldn’t also be cunning, but in those moments, I became convinced that he was dumbing himself down to play the part.

The bigger question was why. Why did he feel the need to live this life, to be this man? What invisible shackles were on his wrists and ankles?

I swallowed. “The rest of the story was the same?”

“Almost. There are some variations on the love story, but in every Native American version, the girl returns to her people. She conveys the message of the god, and so her people are saved.”

Hot tears sprang to my eyes. “And the god is alone.”

His arms tightened around me.

“Yes.”

I couldn’t breathe within his embrace, but I wanted it anyway. Too hot, too sweaty, but I wanted his heat. I was a caterpillar, my many limbs held tight to my body, wrapped up in a cocoon. He paved the way, eased me from a small and ugly life to a beautiful one. The transition had been painful at times, but never more than it would be to leave him. But that was the path of a butterfly—to fly away from the one who had made her.

Chapter Twelve

Only three people are known to have lived going over the falls without a safety device.

After a time, Hunter moved off me. I woke staring up at the knotted oak ceiling of the basement. Anger welled up in me, making my breath come shorter. Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

“You bastard,” I said, breathing hard.

I hit him, right there, the back of my hand against the hard muscle of his arm, and again—my hands clenched in fists, pummeling the impenetrable shield of his body.

He let me.

He never moved to defend himself, barely moved at all except on impact from each small blow. I let loose my rage, expecting a storm and found only a light rain. I fell still, my breath heaving as I knelt on the bed.

“You’re angry.”

My laugh was caustic. “Damn right, I’m angry. You could have killed me.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“Just like you wouldn’t hurt your friends, you wouldn’t ever hurt a woman,” I said sarcastically. “You’re so fucking full of virtue that I can’t even breathe.”

I stared at the golden skin of his back, his arms—completely unblemished. He wasn’t hurt by my blows, but maybe my words could wield more damage.

“Who hurt you?”

His shoulders tensed.

“Who bent you over and fucked you in the ass?”

“You shouldn’t talk like that.” His voice was deceptively mild.

“Oh, you don’t like it when I use bad words, is that it? You like me innocent and compliant, right? Is that how you were when someone shoved their…their cock in your asshole? Did it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

I blinked, surprised he had answered me. “How did he do it?”

“They. How did they get the jump on me and hold me down? That’s what you want to know?”

No, not really. It sounded horrible, even if I had cause to hate him. I would never wish that on anyone, not even Hunter. Especially Hunter.

“How?” I whispered, some demon inside me, some spirit who knew he needed to tell me.

He shrugged slightly, a lift of one muscular shoulder. “It’s not that hard when a man isn’t expecting it, when he’s caught unaware and alone. When there’s no one to help him. They were experienced, and I wasn’t as tough then. I didn’t need to be.”

A deep breath. “Did no one hear you?”

He looked back, his gaze hard. “I didn’t scream, Evie. I prayed.”

I closed my eyes against the turmoil in his gaze but that only gave canvas to the horrible picture of his words. Hunter on his knees, Hunter held down, Hunter praying…for help, for mercy? It didn’t matter. It made me want to throw up.

“Besides,” he said as casually as if he were speaking about the weather. “It isn’t muscles that make you strong. It’s how much you want it. Those guys at the diner? I won that fight because they didn’t want it as badly as I did. They didn’t want you as bad as I do.”

“Why?” I asked evenly. “Am I some sort of revenge against the world? Or we’re all animals so who cares anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter how it started. I’m not letting you go.”

“But you said…in the kitchen…not much longer. You said so.”

He paused, at war with himself. “You want this as much as I do.”

My breath left me for a minute.

“You’re delusional,” I forced out. “You’re telling yourself that so you feel better about what you’re doing.”

“Who the hell else are you going to let touch you now?” he burst out. “Even before I got to you, you were so damn tied up in knots that I can’t believe you actually drove all the way out there. Now I’ve…”

Broken me. I remembered his question from earlier. Did I trust him not to break me? But he believed he already had. He believed I would never fight back, and maybe he was right to think so. Even if I’d had a good reason not to fight in the beginning, when I’d thought he might truly hurt me, why not now?

Strangely, I realized that he wouldn’t really harm me. He’d physically restrain me from getting away, but he wouldn’t kill me for trying. So what was stopping me? Unless I really did like this. Not fighting had become a choice now. If he’d ever stolen my free will, it had surfaced completely now. If I wanted to get away from him, I could.

How much did I want my freedom?

Enough to fight a man I’d come to care about? Enough to break my promise to him not to flee in exchange for the places he showed me? As wonderful as these weeks had been, I was still his prisoner. I’d been given toys for my cage, been taken on walks to sniff around, but in the end I was put away at night on the mattress in his truck where he used me for his pleasure—and for mine.