KINSLEY

Dying, as far as I can tell, really sucks. Not that I'd expected to fade gracefully away on a bed of roses or anything quite that fairy-tale-esque. But shouldn't there be at least a little bit more dignity involved? Puking your guts out with dirt caked beneath your fingernails hardly seems like the way to go.

"Get it all out."

I can feel something at my back. A strong hand holding me upright while more murky river water spews out of me. When I stop hacking up fluid, I glance to the side.

The man is crouched next to me, eyes furrowed in a permanent brood. There's something about his gaze that keeps me still, and it's not just the intense cobalt blue of his irises, glowing like they're lit from within.

It's an unblinking confidence, bordering on arrogance. It's a look that says, Stay there. I obey without thinking.

"Are you alright?" he asks in a voice that's deep, gravelly, harsh. It's as if he hasn't spoken in weeks and he dislikes the sound of his own words.

"The car..." I whisper, looking up at the bridge overhead. I can see the headlights slicing through the shadows, and when the wind blows, I hear the clink and rustle of the cans that my best friend Emma tied to the back, right underneath the hand-painted banner that says Just Married.

"The car is fine. You, not so much."

"I'm fine," I say breathlessly. But it's force of habit. Repeat a lie to yourself long enough and it starts to feel true. Either that or you just get too numb to keep seeing the difference.

"Are you, though?"

"I... I don't know how I am," I stammer.

I sound weak. I sound like the very thing I swore I would never become: a victim.

The man's eyes run over my body. I haven't gotten to the part yet where I ask him where the hell he came from and what on earth he's doing in the middle of an unremarkable stretch of woods on the outskirts of Hartford, Connecticut. He could be a vicious axe murderer, an alien, a mirage. Maybe all three.

But there's nothing in those blue eyes but curiosity. It's a removed kind of curiosity, though. His gaze doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. Not the way I've felt when other men look at me, at least. Like I'm a prize to be claimed. A meal to be eaten. Like I'm no better than a means to an end.

"You need to breathe," he observes suddenly.

Or maybe it's not sudden at all. But it feels like everything from the last few hours has been happening in horrifying slow motion, and it's just now catching up to normal speed again. The effect is like being abruptly slapped in the face.

I blink. "What?"

He leans a little closer. His eyes really are extraordinary. It's such a pure shade of blue. Nothing to muddy it. Just open sky, deep ocean, the very heart of a sapphire.

"You need to breathe," he says again.

There's a snap in his voice that carries natural command. But it's not unkind. Though I suspect it would only take a little effort on his part to change that.

"You're in shock. Open your mouth."

I frown. "What?"

He repeats it again. I watch his lips move in a sort of haunted detachment. I'm floating above all this, watching it happen from afar.

"Open," he says, raising his finger to my lips, "Your. Mouth."

The moment his fingertip touches my bottom lip, my mouth parts. It feels as though he's put a spell on me. I don't remember deciding to listen to him. I just do.

"Good girl. Now, breathe," he murmurs.

Air fills my lungs. I feel my chest expand and the world rush in with it. I can smell the woodsy scents of earth and musk and asphalt and animal.

Oh, sweet, sweet baby Jesus, I can breathe.

He drops his finger to his side. I feel a spark of disappointment at the absence of his touch, which doesn't make the slightest bit of sense.

"Who are you?" I ask quietly.

"I think the bloodstained woman in the wet wedding dress should answer that question first."

I frown, wondering for one wild moment what the hell he's talking about. Then I look down and see the cascades of flowing white silk. Now with a generous layer of river dirt caked into the bottom hemline.

Shattering glass.

Wild fury in his eyes.

The memory lunges at me out of nowhere. I try to back away from it in my head, but Tom's furious eyes keep getting bigger and bigger and the sound of shattering glass keeps getting louder and louder.

I force myself to my feet, determined not to lie in the dirt forever. That would just be confirmation of what I suspect I've always been: a broken thing. But as I try to get to my feet, I stumble.

"Careful there."

The man moves faster than I thought possible, grabs my arm, and just like that, I'm not stumbling anymore.

Just like that, he's holding me.

Just like that, I'm doomed.

He pulls me upright. There's no distance between us now. No foot of space to keep me comfortable. There's just my body against his and his eyes looking into mine.

When was the last time a man held me like this? Tom had, when we first started dating. But his body felt different. Insubstantial, in a weird sort of way. This man is made of muscle. Of presence. He radiates strength.

The way he holds me is different, too. Tom had been looking for something every time he touched me. This man is asking for nothing.

Instead, he's giving me everything I never knew I needed.

"I'm Kinsley," I say.

"Pleasure's all mine, Kinsley."

"Do you have a name?"

"Everyone has a name."

I frown. "That's not an answer."

He doesn't smile. And I can understand why. His features are uniquely suited to broodiness. His nose is so straight, I want to place my finger at the top and run it down the bridge.

"You're hurt," he observes.

He lifts his hand again. This time, he brushes the backs of his fingers against my right cheek. All I can feel is a tingly warmth spreading across my face.

"Someone hit you," he says again in that voice that sounds like rocks on steel. "It left a mark."

Whatever spell he had me under, it breaks against those words. I recoil from him, and he drops his hands instantly. As if to prove that he was touching me because I needed the support, not because he actually wanted to do it.

My heart leaps into my throat. I feel trapped and skittish, like it only just occurred to me that nothing that has happened today feels real and I need to get the hell out of Dodge so I can wake up from this nightmare.

"No one hit me," I say automatically.

I have no idea why I'm denying it. But I do know it's not about protecting Tom. Maybe it's about protecting myself.

People used to look at my mother the way this man is looking at me, and I always despised it. I swore I'd be different, and even though fate has dragged me right back into the exact same place she suffered in, I'm still stubbornly defiant. Not me! I'm screaming at the universe. You won't do to me what you did to her!

"No one hit me."

"You already said that." Just like that, his tone shifts. It turns dark, fierce. It fractures into a dozen different pieces, and every single one of those shards is aimed right at vulnerable old me.

"I... I fell," I stammer stupidly.

His expression doesn't change. I don't know why I feel the need to explain anything to this man. He's a stranger. A stranger who walked out of the woods like some apparition from a dream. But his eyes demand explanation, and God help me, I'm giving it to him.

"I was... walking down the stairs," I continue. "And I tripped. I fell."

I glance down, my face burning scarlet red. I can see him at the edge of my vision still gazing at me impassively.

"Anyway," I add, "I have to go."

"Late for a wedding?" he asks, deadpan.

It takes me a long moment to realize he's making a joke. It then occurs to me-way, way too late-that this whole interaction is bizarre beyond words. "Where did you come from? Were you... camping, or something?"

He shakes his head, but offers me nothing else.

"You never told me your name," I remind him.

"No, I didn't." He glances up towards the bridge. "I'm going to go take a look at your car. See if it's repairable."

He starts hiking up the sloped, rocky curve that leads to the bridge. I hesitate for only a second before I start to follow. My dress is so heavy that it takes all my energy to keep moving, and the muddy ground does me no favors. By the time I reach the car, he's already shutting the hood.

"It'll drive. No lasting damage." He chooses his words carefully, as though there's only a finite amount left and he doesn't want to use them all up in one go.

"So... I can get in and go?"

He glances towards me. "Are you asking permission?"

I laugh bitterly. "No. Just, sometimes, I think my life would be easier if someone just told me what to do and how to do it."

I wait for him to look at me as though I'm insane-more likely concussed, but insane would also work as a plausible explanation-but his expression doesn't change.

"That... that was a strange thing to say... wasn't it?" I mumble awkwardly.

"If it's how you feel, it's not strange."

"No one ever says how they really feel. Not to a complete stranger."

"Maybe they should start."

I try looking at him the way he's looking at me. Unblinkingly. Unapologetically. The eye contact intensifies, but I still refuse to break it.

The sirens do that for me.

I gasp when the first wail sings through the air. I turn my gaze out towards the empty road behind us. "Ambulance," I guess.

He shakes his head. "No. Police."

He nods once, crisply as if reaching a decision, then opens the passenger side door and gestures for me to get in.

"Time to go," he says casually.

I look at the passenger seat and then back at him. "You're driving?"

"Yes. You're in no fit state to drive, and I'm not interested in taking another plunge into the next river we find. But if you'd like to stay, be my guest."

There's plenty in there that I could argue with. Plenty in there that I should argue with. But I make the mistake of looking at his cobalt blue eyes, and that's what seals the deal.

I get into the car, and we drive.

3

DANIIL

It's been fourteen months since I've seen a woman.

This one was worth the wait.

She's slumped limply against her seat, skin ghostly, stare vacant. She looks almost lifeless. A china doll who would move anywhere I put her. Her hair is plastered down the sides of her face and water droplets still sparkle across the tops of her breasts. She's soaking the seat through, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Seatbelt," I say.

She turns, looking through me more than at me. "Huh?"

I lean over to grab the seatbelt and put it on for her. She smells of lilacs and champagne, and my dick stiffens in my pants almost instantaneously.

It'd be easy to say that this would happen for any female I saw today. Over a year of captivity reduces a man to his most animalistic instincts. But I know in my marrow that that's not true.

It isn't because she's a woman.

It's because she's this one.

Pink lips, soft as a cloud. Blushing cheeks. Pale green eyes like the highest leaf on a tree right when the dawn begins to break.

The latch of the belt clicks into place. My hand brushes her chest as I withdraw it. She's cinched up in too many layers of lace and fabric for it to be sexual in the least, but something about that faint contact makes me shiver regardless.

The whole time, she just watches me blankly.

I'm lucky to have found her in this state. Panicked, vulnerable, broken. She's as much on the run as I am, albeit in very, very different ways. I have to capitalize on this moment as much as I can before she starts waking up.

Before she starts fighting back.

So I pull the car out and resume driving, heading in the same direction she'd been going in. The vehicle groans and shudders at first, but it evens out as we pick up speed. The sirens grow louder.

It takes a few miles, but the girl slowly regains her senses. She sees my eyes flitting between the rearview mirror and the road ahead, and eventually, she makes the connection.