Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You can take my body, you can take my bones, you can take my blood, but not my soul.

“At the Purchaser’s Option” by Rhiannon Giddens

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 3

Blink.

It's little flashes of clarity that come to you in between sleep. Little moments of awareness. You see John moving around the encampment, busying himself with boiling water for whatever else he's planning. You can keep an eye on him when you can, silent but too lethargic to move.

Eyelids feeling impossibly heavy and you’re just so damn tired.

Blink.

You awaken again, maybe just moments later, maybe hours. This time, the sting of antiseptic draws you back to consciousness, burning the abrasions from your fall, plus the ones on your stomach. Those couldn’t be from your tumble. You remember the feeling of rough tree bark underneath you.

Strong hands peel apart your thighs to pull down your underwear, fully exposing you, holding them in place despite your exhausted attempt to close them. Heart pounding as he maneuvers between your knees and touches you, but you’re too groggy to do more than lift an arm before it falls back down, useless.

Goddess, it’s like your veins are filled with lead.

There’s a warm, damp towel between your legs. An expressionless face as someone wipes away the fluids there with clinical movements. Soon after, you’re dressed in different clothes that blessedly feel dry and clean.

It’s nice, once the dizziness at being maneuvered finally wanes.

It’s through watery, sleepy eyes that you watch as he cleans your face next, scraping off the grimy combination of tears, dirt, and lipstick. Probably some other fluids, too. The hot towel remains on your face, soothing your chilled nose and relieving your swollen eyelids.

Blink.

You can’t tell if it’s this time when you’re awake or another time, but eventually your head is cradled in a lap as the rest of you remains tucked under the covers. A kind hand is smoothing down the mess of hair on your head, gently pulling out whatever knots it can. Blunt fingernails scratch along your scalp.

Is that humming?

Whatever it is, it sounds nice. No words, nothing that can help you determine what the melody is, but it helps to balance out the noise of the insects waking up. The fingers massaging your scalp help with that persistent ache in your head, too.

Blink.

The world is just flashing images of anxiety and terror. Branches whipping your hide raw as you run past; running and running and running without making any headway. The trunks loom impossibly large, pulsating with near humanlike life, passing quiet judgment upon you as they fill the space.

It's terrifying here. Cloying with the sickly rot of death.

The desire to escape this scene sends you away, and those hulking trunks melt down, down, down out of sight. Bedding beneath you plush as fur and touch featherlight, purposeful enough to send heat to your core, but soft enough to leave you needing more. Bristled kisses scratching at your chin and soft words at your neck, right under your ear. Soft curls tickling your stomach while a hot, slick tongue trails down your slopes; teeth scraping at the flesh.

Whispers, low and rumbling drifting over you while cinders prickle your flesh.

“So pretty, so soft, so ripe for the picking. All mine, all mine.”

Slick, wriggling forms curling around your ankles, your wrists, your neck, tethering you in place. The weight of them sinking you deeper into the mass, heavy, heavy, heavy until you can’t see anything else but waves and darkness. Feel anything other than fire at your toes.

Blink.

A snapping sound is what wakes you this time, and you’ve got enough bearings to understand where you are this time. You’re still in his tent, wrapped up under layers of blankets, and it’s a new day.

With the awareness of your surroundings comes that of your body as well. Shutting your eyes prevents the tears from escaping–you need to keep your sinuses clear so you can breathe around this damn gag. He fucking…duct-taped your mouth together. Your hands, your wrists. That’s…that’s what serial killers do.

I’m going to die here.

Ignoring the cramping pain in your abdomen, your gaze wanders around the tent–his bag is in the corner near you, but there’s nothing of much significance to look at. It’s been cleared out.

Except for the camera.

It looks like damnation, now. Would he really have parted ways without…forcing you if you hadn’t discovered his secret? If you hadn’t snooped? Does it even matter?

Stop, don't cry. If you start crying now, your nose will get clogged and you’ll suffocate before you get the chance to escape. Before John gets the chance to strangle you himself.

Goddess, your mouth is so dry and your head feels like it’s about to split open.

The sound of a zipper snaps you into focus. Thankfully, you’re facing away as the tent flap opens, shutting your eyes tight. The thunk of boots hitting the floor as he climbs into the tent, settling behind you.

Breathe. Slowly, so he doesn’t know you’re awake. Who knows what else he has planned for you once you wake up. He’ll probably pull down that pair of clean and dry underwear and finish what he started last night.

That body settles in behind you, pulling you into his chest. John’s nosing your hair, inhaling deeply and quietly. An arm snakes over your ribs to pull you into his firm chest. You cut off the frightened noise in your throat before it escapes and, stomach sinking, manage to remain still–trying to calm your breathing.

Pretend to be asleep and maybe he won’t do anything yet. Maybe he’ll stop. A few minutes of this, and it seems to be working. His hands stay in polite places, one tucked securely under your ribs, caging you in, while the other combs through your hair–tries to, anyway. After a couple of snags, he pivots to stroking it instead.

It’s…almost nice. Would be comforting without the obvious context.

“I know you’re awake, dear.” The words are whispered near your ear. “I can hear your heart.”

Damn. Of course he can feel that, so intimately pressed to you. Tears leak out as you squirm, trying to free yourself from his touch, but your head is still fuzzy and your movements feel sluggish. And your fucking head is going to kill you.

“Shh, shh,” he says when you try to resist, choking on your words as they all try to speak at once, only to be blocked by tape. “It’s okay.”

Tamping down the hysterical impulse to laugh. What the fuck about any of this is okay? You're going to die on this trail–not because of inexperience or an accident. No, because of a starving, dangerous predator that you let into your camp, into your bed.

But it's okay, right?

John kisses you right above your temple before guiding you to face him.

“Look at me,” he says, voice calm and low, waiting for you to meet his eyes. “I’m going to remove this tape now. And you aren’t going to scream or get loud or any of that.”

You nod along with him. Okay.

Helping you to sit up, he carefully peels off the tacky binding over your mouth, and that first big gulp of air is such a rush that you're actually grateful. It must be the sudden influx of oxygen that caused such a maddening thought.

He allows you the several long moments it takes to breathe properly. What are you supposed to do now? You can’t take him in a fair fight and you don’t have anything to use against him. You’re still tied up.

“Good morning,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment before his words catch up. “...Good morning,” you whisper, eyes wet.

“How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” His expression looks sincere, like he actually wants to know.

Are we back to pretending?

Licking your lips brings you no relief. Your tongue is as dry as they are. 

“I…I could use some water, actually.”

Thankfully, he’s prepared, has a mug of it ready for you and holds it for you while you take in big gulps. Gods, you needed that. Watching him with guarded eyes as he puts the mug down and wipes the remnants of water from your chin.

“Thank you, John,” you say, surprising him. “For taking such good care of me.”

His response sounds as measured as yours, the words slow and calculated. “You’re welcome.”

Forcing a smile even if it makes you nauseous. A couple of fingertips crawling over to lightly touch the denim over his knees. “I, uh,” you swallow. “So last night got a bit intense, huh?”

His head tilts and there's a slight pull at his lip. “Intense?”

“Yeah,” you laugh a bit. “I hope…I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly?” Gesturing to his lip.

Confused fingers reach up to touch the newly-forming scabs. “No, it’s…it’s okay. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine. We had fun, right? I don’t normally uh… play so rough, but I think we both got a little overexcited, huh? Must be something in the water out here.”

John still looks wary, trying to gauge where you are. “Yeah, maybe so. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Looking away at his scrutiny, shrugging. “I’ll be a lot better when you get me out of this tape, honestly. I’d like to stretch out this soreness.” Picking at your cuticles, smearing another smile on your face. “Not that I would mind being tied up for other reasons.”

Teasing the hard lines of his chest through his shirt with a nail attached to a finger attached to a bound hand. “Maybe not so tight next time?”

He frowns, looking between your hands and your face. “What are you doing?”

Smile faltering under his scrutiny. “Waking up? I’m not sure how to answer that.” A girlish chuckle as an offering on the altar.

“No, I mean what are you playing at?”

Don’t let up. “Playing? I’m not, but if you want to play, we can.”

“Is that so?” he asks, looking down your body and back up. “And what do you want to play, hm?”

“I can think of a few options.” A heated smirk. “It'll be easier with my hands free, though.”

Sliding your hands, so closely stuck together, over his shirt, down the flat, hard planes of his stomach, skimming over his zipper, biting the edge of your lip with a wink when he–

Takes hold of your wrists, not rough, not yet, ignoring your surprised yelp as he moves in close. Until you can feel his warmth on you. “Don’t lie to me, Rusty.”

Brings a finger under your chin until you muster the courage to look up.

“I…” That familiar feeling of panic is coming back, swells up your abused throat and makes your words all wobbly. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“There you are,” he says, corner of his mouth quirking up. “That pretty mouth of yours may be able to spin a tale, but your eyes can’t lie. I want you to tell me the truth.”

A swallow. Nervous. Frayed and jagged. “The truth about what?”

“How about we start from the beginning: are you okay?”

Eyes hard, a finger still under your chin, commanding your attention, never dislodging. The truth?

You shake your head. 

“Good job. How are you feeling?”

Mouth agape and all you want to do is run, forget the foot. “Bad. Scared.”

“Are you in any pain?”

You nod.

“Where?”

Trembling, because you’re afraid to misstep again. “Everywhere?”

He frowns again, dropping your chin.

“I’m sorry, I–”

But he’s digging through his pocket, bringing out a small bottle. Aspirin. He shakes a couple tablets out.

“Open up.”

Grimacing, you obey him without question this time, tongue flat along the bottom of your lip. He runs a finger atop it, flinching when you do as he brushes the swollen area where he bit it last night. Places those two pills on top and lets you go so he can bring the mug back up to your mouth for another drink.

“It’s extra strength. You can have more later.”

Swallowing them down and trying to wash down the feeling of John’s fingers in your mouth again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and you fight not to squirm away.

A short period of silence passes, maybe just thirty seconds, but it's agonizing.

You're staring at the wide, gray tape around your wrists. “...John?”

“Mm?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Goodness, it’s a weak sentence that comes out of you. Childlike, frail. Soft. None of that bark that you drew upon yesterday, fat lot of good that it did you.

His brows furrow in confusion. “Kill you? Why would you–that’s not what this is.”

“What is it?” you ask. “What do you want?”

He settles before you again, knee to knee because there isn’t any goddamn room in this tent. “Right now? I just want to talk.”

Your pulse is racing. Here it is, the big villain reveal. No, he's not going to kill you. He's going to hurt you until he's tired of you, and let nature take over from there.

“I was beginning to miss you,” he whispers, hand on your cheek and the feel of it is like a hot iron branding you. It’s nothing but filth. “You slept for so long.”

“I don’t–”

“Did you miss me, too? From the noises you were making in your sleep, it sounded like you did.”

Ignoring the blush of your cheeks–now you have matching lipstick–you reply, “It was a nightmare.” He asked for the truth, after all.

“You have kinky nightmares, then. Not a surprise, considering the books you read,” he says. “I can go through things that aren’t mine, too.”

The smug bastard sounds amused as you avert your gaze, face burning with mortification. John licks his lips slowly, his cheery demeanor faltering as he takes you in, roving over the various bruises and bite marks he'd left on you. You just want him to stop looking at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for ruining everything yesterday. I’m sorry I fought you, but I–please, please don’t hurt me. Please.”

“No, I…went too far,” John’s fingertips cup your chin to make you look at him again, “last night. That wasn’t my inten–this must be a lot for you to take in.”

While he sounds normal, puts on a believable image, the reminder of what he's capable of doing sends ice down your spine. Buried underneath your veneer of calmness is a volume of fear that could fill a quarry and still spill over. Sweat drips down your back.

A lot? What an understatement. You’re splintering under the weight of it. Your hands are shaking again, toes twitching, damn that big one, and you need to be able to move. Immediately.

“Rusty?” A voice filled with concern.

“Get me out of this tape. Now. I can't stand it,” you plead, on the verge of hysteria, gasping out breaths. “I won't fight you, I won't. I just…I can feel another panic attack coming on and I need it off. Please.”

Rocking keeps the worst of it at bay. For now.

“Please, John.”

He's shuffling around, and suddenly there's a big hunting knife in his hand. As soon as you open your mouth to apologize for anything at all–

I'm sorry.

–it slices through those thick layers of tape around your wrists.

“Don’t get any ideas, hm? I don’t want to regret this. You’re more likely to hurt yourself anyway. Again.”

Another swipe and your feet are free. Immediately scooting backwards to give yourself much-needed space, you’re rubbing your wrists and ankles, as though wiping away the memory. Hiding your head in the protective shell of your arms around your knees, drawn up tight against your chest. Maybe if you curl up tighter, you can blip out of existence.

Breathe in. Out. Hold. In. Out, hold.

Hold...

Mercifully, he waits until you lift your head back up to resume. “Better?”

Drying your face on your sweatshirt. “I think so.”

Another couple of minutes pass before he continues.

“Look. I don't want another repeat of yesterday, and I don't think you do either. Do you?”

Shaking your head profusely.

“I think I'm owed a chance to explain things,” he starts. “I just…I get so angry sometimes, you see. And you, Rusty. Yesterday, you pushed my buttons, to say the least.”

You’re not safe, Rusty.

“I was looking forward to our day together and it was spoiled. Then the way you acted…I just saw red.” He frowns like he's back in that headspace before he collects himself, giving a pitying look when he notices how you began to shrink again. "You were scared, lashing out, and I should have been more patient with you. I realize that now."

He encroaches on your meager space, hand lingering in the tendrils of your hair. The movement is too familiar, too tender. “This is just a hiccup. We had a nice time together, right? That first day.”

He's so close to you and knowing the type of pain he's capable of inflicting, you nod along with him. Yes, you did have fun. Foolish little idiot that you are, you didn't realize that you were merrily walking into the belly of the beast, following a trail laid out in literal treats.

Oh, what fun was had. Before he revealed himself, chased you, pushed you down and shoved his hand deep enough to inscribe his name on your uterine walls. John was here.

A hiccup, he calls it. The thing that has irrevocably changed your life is just a hiccup.

“Are you going to let me go? I won't tell anyone, I promise. I don't–I don't even know your whole name. No one will be able to find you, anyway.”

The realization hits you after the words leave your mouth. No one will be able to find him. Oh. There won't be any justice, will there?

“I will,” he says. “Eventually.”

Eventually? When?

“What do you want?”

He sighs as though you’re the one who’s being slow here. Like you’re the one who isn’t making sense. “What I want, Rusty, is for us to spend the next few days together in peace. We’ll spend our mornings together, have our meals together, and go to sleep together. Like we did before.”

That brine has returned to your eyes, balancing delicately on your waterline as you listen to his madness.

“I want…to prove to you that I can be good,” he says. His hands grasp yours. “I will. But I need you to let me. Stop fighting me at every turn.”

Taking in his message, marinating on its implications, it still doesn't make sense.

What's wrong with you? you long to ask, but something tells you that he wouldn't take well to it. So instead you ask:

“What's the point? Is it–is it just sex, because I don’t…understand. You could pay for that. There are people who will do anything you want, better than me, and I don’t…I don’t understand what this is supposed to be.” A willing victim? Someone so browbeaten that they’ll let him do whatever freakish thing he wants?

He makes a face when you mention something so distasteful as paying for gratification. “Because when money is involved, it’s just that: a transaction. It’s filthy and cold, and I want something more. I want–”

“Companionship.”

“Yes,” he answers. “Your companionship. Your company.”

“And my…body.”

“Yes.”

Sucking in a breath at that single word and all its implications. He's asking so much of you. Everything. “Will it hurt?”

Then he leans in, his clean breath making your scalp tingle. Fingertips gliding across your cheekbones as though memorizing the bone structure beneath. “Not unless you want it to.”

When you balk, he stops you with a palm up. “You want to pretend you like it nice? We can do that. I’ll be sure to warm you up properly first. Go slow, savor every nook, tease out every secret trapped there.”

His caresses become more bold, prickling your skin and setting aflame your heightened nerves. Forehead against yours now so you can't look away.

“Yes, I want you. You can’t deny that you want me, too. Knew it from the first time you grabbed my cock like it was yours–”

“Stop!” You cover his mouth before you can even think about it. Dropping your hand, you resist the urge to wipe it clean.

He wants you to be his willing plaything. A personal courtesan out here in the woods. He said he wouldn’t hurt you, but he's a liar, too. This…this will hurt you beyond belief.

But you can do it. Because the alternative is so much worse.

“For how long?”

“Oh, not long at all,” he says. “I won’t keep you forever. A few days, Rusty, is all I’m asking for. It won’t be like yesterday, I promise you that.”

No, no no. “How long, John?”

“Let’s say…five days.”

Five? No way. “One.”

“Four.”

“One.”

John runs a hand through his loose hair. “Y’know, you’re not really great at negotiating, Rusty.”

Taking his hand in yours so he can see the weight of this…this thing that he is asking of you. The same hand that you could recognize by feel alone at this point. “This is my life. People are expecting me. My family, my friends–they’ve been waiting to hear back from me.”

That lopsided smile. “The truth, Rusty, remember? You already told me that you’re not in any hurry, and people aren't exactly able to write home every day while out here. No, dear. I don’t think anyone’s expecting you any time soon.”

Damn. He’s right. Why did you tell him so much about yourself before? You didn’t even know this monster. You’ve been making so many mistakes without realizing it and he’s been cataloguing them all.

“Four more days,” he says. It’s not much, but a day could mean the difference between your life and your death.

“Including today. It’s been two days already, John. Please.” A gentle squeeze.

He looks like he wants to object, but refrains. “Four days, including today, you clever little fox. It should give your foot enough time to move on it again.”

Four days. A lot can happen in four days.

“How about this: if I could do one thing for you–within reason–what would it be?”

It doesn't take you but a moment to come up with an idea. It's an image that's been flashing through your mind in violent sequences. How he'd be engulfed until he's nothing but a foul memory in your therapist’s office.

“Is self-immolation on the table, John?” You spit his name like a curse and pull your hair out of his grasp. Before you can worry if you went too far again, the bastard laughs, really laughs from his belly that it’s startling and loud. His lashes fan out against his cheeks in crinkled amusement.

“You’re a little spark plug sometimes. I was hoping you hadn't lost that.”

Fuck you. You begin to hiss before checking yourself. No, no. Calibrate. Just keep him sated until you can figure out a course of action.

“I want–I need at least a day to recover, first,” you say, steeling your gaze when he opens his mouth for a rebuttal. “If you want me to be this…whatever it is for you, I need some time, first. Last night was–you, you made me bleed and I–”

Just relax as he carves you into his preferred image. Two lovers frolicking through the meadow, hand in hand. Have you ever been fucked? Copper in your nose, wet heat on your face, too thin, too slippery to be covered in any color other than red–

“Hey, hey–breathe, Rusty. Look at me,” he says, hands on either side of your face. “Come back to me. Listen: it's done. A day to heal.”

He comes back into focus, tanned face framed by dark hair and even darker eyes. Wondering where he keeps his horns. Shouldn't he bring them out for this kind of deal?

“...And if I say no to this?” You're whispering now.

John’s smile falters a bit. “I really hope you don't.”

Another pained swallow that reminds you of the stakes.

“If I do what you ask,” you say, leveling your gaze on him. Something about his entreaty bolsters your confidence. “If I do this, will you swear to let me go in no worse shape? You won't…you won't hurt me again or leave me to rot? Swear it.”

“You know, I wasn't serious when I said I’d leave you here. I wouldn't do something lik–”

Your mouth twists into a thin line, curbing the desire to bite his goddamned lying nose off. It’s not worth the retaliation, and if you've learned anything, it's that John does not take a slight well.

“No, I don't know. I don’t know anything about you. Your word, John. Convince me that it means something. Please.”

“You have my word: I swear on my sister Jane–whom I adore, by the way–I'll return you home safely.”

Fuck. Are you really agreeing to this? You’re not stuck between a rock and a hard place, no. This is an agreement made when your back is to the edge of a ravine. 

Say no and you’ll have a repeat of last night, only…only worse. Say yes and you’ve bought yourself time to figure out an escape plan before he touches you again. One day’s reprieve, maybe more. Maybe you’ll leave this place with all your limbs, maybe even a few pieces of your dignity.

You might actually live.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay? Is that a yes?” The relief that erupts on John’s face is palpable, forming deep lines of joy cut into his cheeks. This man is going to ruin you.

This is it, Rusty. May this not be the moment you close the door of your tomb.

“Yes.”

Three letters. It appears simple, easy even, this one word–yes–but it's bloated with dread. It's peeking out through the stretched holes of its seams, barely held together by thread.

All while John beams.

He carefully untangles himself from the tent’s close confines to step outside, holding the flap open for you. Thank the gods, because you need to get the everloving fuck out of this tent and get some fresh air in your lungs. You’re already sick of looking at nylon walls.

He holds out a hand and you secretly appreciate the gesture because your legs are moving like a newborn fawn–unstable and wobbly as you blink against the day’s brightness.

“Are you hungry? I'll reheat your breakfast.”

Standing reminds you of the deep ache in your core and you grip your lower abdomen with a grimace. The painkillers haven’t set in yet, but he at least has the wherewithal to look remorseful, fiddling with his pants like he needs a task to be useful. To be good. No teasing banter.

Watching as he prepares your meal because it's a great opportunity to study captor–your companion. It’s hard to imagine the man who washed your underwear and has them hanging up to dry as the same one who brutalized you yesterday. Hair loose and framing his face, humming as he stirs the pot.

He has good caregiving instincts when he wants to use them, as you hate to admit. Portraying himself as the perfect image of domesticity. While the conversation is mostly one-sided–only your soft “mm”s and the occasional polite nod–his gentle facade has your head spinning.

John makes your head spin. The moment you start to hold sympathy for him, you need only to tense your lower half, the dull soreness reminding you what he’s capable of. That you are being held captive. Remind yourself of who he really is underneath this boyish snapshot.

An imitator. A mimic.

Is this really the same man who crawled himself so deep within you that you're sure he’d lodged some piece of himself beneath your ribs?

It’s early afternoon when John breaks your reverie.

“So,” he says. “I thought we might visit that stream we talked about before. You could paint there.” He’s talking and gathering his thick, wavy locks before securing them into a bun again.

Really? Taking you away from camp to a water source that could potentially attract other hikers? For someone who’s clearly done this before, he’s sloppy. Overconfident. It’s a great idea. Carefully measuring each inhale and exhale, you nod. Sure, John. Happy to take the risk.

“That sounds really nice. Thank you,” squeezing his hand, you offer a shy smile. “Can I change first? I, um…I don’t feel presentable.” Grateful again when he nods sympathetically.

Do you really look that bad right now? Surprisingly, he helps you into your own tent, alone, even zips it up behind you so you can have privacy.

Fuck being presentable. Dropping to your knees, you scramble to your pack and look for your own knife, but it’s gone. So is your bear mace, and there’s nothing else you can use as a weapon. Damn. Damn him. He’s three steps ahead of you. Of course he is. He always was.

Peeling off your clothes is quick, just your shorts and shirt, but now you’re left bared, body and soul. With nowhere to channel your adrenaline now, your hands tremble as you’re simply stuck with yourself. Nervously running fingers through your hair and wincing at the snags. You also quickly wipe yourself down, sure to avoid the sorry sight of the marks John left.

Just another swipe across your eyes because it’s something you can’t deal with right now.

While selecting clean underclothes, a simple pair of pants, and a shirt from your pack, you wish you’d packed more concealing clothes. You also check out your toe. It’s gone purple with heavy bruising, but the good thing is that it still moves, even if it hurts like a bitch. But…that’s good. Very, very good.

The sound of the zipper opening again startles you, and John’s form comes into view.

“Everything alright?” he asks, looking down at your crouched position with an eyebrow raised.

Grimacing, you prod your toe with an exaggerated hiss. “Yes, it’s just…I think it’s broken.” Letting the tears well in your eyes is an easy task compared to keeping them at bay. Let him think it’s worse than it is.

He tuts at you–pathetic little girl, you imagine–but he seems convinced.

“Here. I’ve got you.”

When you’re ready for your little excursion, he kneels, offering his back. Trailing your gaze down, you see he’s got that hunting knife holstered to his hip. You could grab it…but you’d have to be fast.

Quick as lightning, you lash out and grab the handle, a flick of your thumb has it released from the holster. He’s too stunned to move away quick enough and with a confident push, the silver tip sinks, sinks into the muscles of his back like room temperature butter–

“Rusty?”

Blinking, you glance up and see that he’s got his head turned partway, looking back at you with concern.

It was a stupid idea anyway. 

“Yeah, I’m just…trying to be careful.”

“Good idea. Come on, I’ll help you balance.”

With a heft, he lifts your weight onto his back. Large hands are under your knees as you try to ignore the light sting of your scrapes. The urge to panic threatens you again, when you're on him like this. Your breasts against his back, the sore flesh of your core pressed intimately against him.

Loose tendrils of his hair so close that you can smell him–your stomach tightens. That familiar scent of sandalwood and possibly rosemary fills your nostrils, with an undertone of his musk. Likely something you'll never quite forget.

Arms around his neck, pretending you’re his girlfriend or something. The gentle, repetitive motions as he makes during the trek bring a surprising amount of comfort, though, and that drowsiness creeps back up. Impossibly lethargic still. Resting your head on his shoulder and letting your eyes drift shut.

Blink.

You wake up when you arrive, and it turns out that “stream” is actually a river with a fierce current in some places. John sets you down carefully, allowing you a moment to take in your new surroundings. 

It’s a marvel. You’re not far from the water’s edge, giving you a clear view of the area. While this side of the river is thick with tall trees, the other side shows more diverse vegetation. It’s flatter there, featuring a small meadow in the foreground before the terrain gives way to treeline.

He appears at your side. “So what do you think? Did I choose well?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes, it is,” he says fondly, eyes focused on you. The fondness in his voice makes that feeble little heart of yours double its speed. Would his words have the same effect if he hadn’t tricked you, hadn’t courted you as a different person first? Either way, he’s mean to talk that way…like his jaws didn’t rip you asunder until you fit perfectly into his palms. Like he isn’t planning to do it again.

“I’m glad we could come here together.” 

To your credit, you don’t flinch, not much anyway, when John draws nearer, towering over you and using the curl of his fingers to tilt your face upwards. As he takes you in, your heart pounds. You stare at the little wounds on his lip that match your canines, waiting for them to get closer and meet yours–instead, he considers you for a moment, before kissing your forehead sweetly. You can still feel the mark after his lips are gone, though, like a brand. John’s.

You’re settled into a spot that provides a view perfect for painting: this side of the river is well-shaded under the canopy of trees, the trunks framing a meadow across the way that looks like a field of gold with wildflower gems.

Yet, inspiration is on the backburner–you’re too distracted by your situation. What have you gotten yourself into, Rusty? Playing lovers? He mercifully gives you some distance, though, taking closeup shots of the greenery and sneaking photos of you when he thinks you’re distracted by your work.

Fucking creep.

Before long, after scribbled attempts at capturing the scene across the way, a new form emerges on your paper. Instincts take over, guiding your color selection and movements, just adding water as needed. So engrossed are you that you don’t notice when he appears at your side.

“Is that…me?” The low voice behind you startles you into turning to face the man behind you.

Looking down at your work, the red backdrop contrasts against the slender features in the foreground. Indomitable eyes with a darkness to them that pairs well with his beard and wavy locks. It's somewhat abstract, but very clearly him.

“Suppose that it is,” you respond carefully.

“Can I?” he asks, and you offer him the portrait.

He’s quiet, eyes tracing along the blended smears of color. You didn’t necessarily want to paint him, but for obvious reasons he’s been consuming your attention and you felt the need to just get him out of you. 

However, it’s a striking portrait: kohl-lined eyes enhance his smokiness, suggesting an amorphous ability to be labeled or pinned down…to be understood. The red tones are reflected with the hue of his lips, far too saturated to be natural, literally painted upon his lips.

In your untamed style, you may have portrayed a version of John who didn’t get slapped down for trying to express himself as a child. A man who learned to embrace the nuances of performance. Well, other nuances of performance, anyway.

It’s a timeline unexplored.

“This is…well, it’s nice,” he says after a while. “Is this how you see me?”

Rolling the answer around in your mouth, you respond, “...It’s one way.”

He probably wouldn’t appreciate the other ideas you had considered. The way the pretty color of lipstick he forced on you had smeared onto his own face by the end of it.

Besides, the abstraction of your feelings will take years to depict with accuracy.

“I think I should keep this.” John’s tucking the now-dry portrait away. He can’t let you leave here with an image of him, and certainly not one such as this.

Your shrug is casual. “It’s yours.” Just like everything else, right? Take it. Take it all until your belly is so full that it bursts, wolf.

“...Thank you.” He’s fiddling with his camera, scrolling through pictures, unsure of what to do with the moment.

Gesturing at his camera, desperate to relieve some of the awkwardness, you say, “Can I see?”

He crouches beside you and levels the screen before you, and it’s full of diverse textures of leaves featuring vivid greens, cheerful yellows, warm browns. There’s a few photos of you, as expected–there’s nothing left to hide, right? In them, you’re hunched over, focused on your work, contemplating the meadow far off. The sun casts sharp contrast over the frown lines of your face as you work.

Perspective that’s meticulously focused, with obsessive clarity.

“You have a unique view of the world.”

He teases warmly, puffed up at your words, “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a fact,” you say. He nudges your shoulder with affection anyway and sits beside you like you’re old pals.

Your first day is wasting away, Rusty, and all you know is the direction to this other secluded place. No one else is in sight, no hope for finding another hiker, at least not today.

“Do you mind if I go toward the river’s edge?” you ask. “I want a better look. I’ll be careful with my foot.”

His smile is strained. “How about we both go? I’ll help you down.”

Smart man, because at this moment, you’re just as likely to jump in and take your chances with the current.

Slowly walking down the slope with John’s assistance, ignoring the shivers as he wraps an arm around your waist and plants a firm hand on your bicep, you arrive at the river that's both broader and faster than you had expected. Maybe you need a new map, because this is not what you were expecting. There are only a few potential places in sight where crossing is possible, but there’s no way you can outrun him when he’s mere feet away from you.

No, you need more time to plan an escape. You can’t take your pack–it’ll be too noisy to sneak away with it and the heavy thing will slow you down. Possibly, you could stash some essentials and hoof it, the damage to your toe could be dealt with later, but how would you slip away from John?

How, how, how? Think.

“A lot on your mind, Foxheart?”

Whipping your head away from the river, maybe you were staring too long, you find John watching you carefully.

“No, I just–the water is deeper than I thought.”

“Mm,” he muses, coming over to rest his hand on your shoulder, ignoring how the muscles tense. “It does look full, doesn’t it? The summer was unusually rainy, probably why we’re seeing so much vegetation still. Speaking of, we should fill up while we’re here.”

Handing over your water bottle, he crouches to refill his own at a spot where it’s calm enough. The impulse to simply push him into the water rears up, but that won’t do you any good. It isn’t deep here. He’ll climb right back out and catch you in no time.

Your agreement would be off and it’ll be a repeat of–no, you can’t bear that. You’ll have to be patient and strategic. Play along with his delusion for now.

After filling your bottle, he helps you back up the slope before hoisting you onto his back again, making the trek back home. The sun hovers low over the horizon, giving you just enough time to arrive at camp and set up the fire.

The golden hour beams pleasantly on your back and you try to ignore the soft comfort of his hair as your face rests against it; the firm grasp of his paws on your legs, so intimately wrapped around him.

You’re especially trying to ignore how the hilt of that hunting knife, slung low on his belt, occasionally rubs against your leg.

Does a predator enjoy the waiting period before pursuing their prey? Does it give them greater satisfaction whenever they inevitably get to chase whatever unlucky thing has crossed their path? After all, who wants to tumble headlong into the abyss of pleasure without the arduous climb beforehand as a comparison? 

How long did he plan this out? He has your favorite snacks after all. Were some of them at a supply station, or has he been trailing behind you this entire time? How many more victims of his desire would you find on his camera if you could get a longer look?

It’s been another night of dinner and ridiculous treats. True to his word, John has been worshiping you…as much as you’re allowing. He keeps touching you, playing with your hair, smelling you, like a stubby-fingered toddler who knows they made a mistake. Trying to get back into your good graces.

And if you secretly like the little apologies, the persistent attempts to regain your favor that you can righteously scorn, that’s a secret you’ll take to your grave. He’s the one who did wrong here, not you, but he’s so needy for affection, it’s a wonder he wasn’t an only child.

What was it like for Jane growing up with John as her brother? Is she older or younger? Do they still talk?

“John,” you say. “Tell me about Jane?”

It appears that the abrupt question has caught him off guard. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s she like?” Is she still okay?

“She’s…strong. One of the most resilient people I know. We grew up hard in a lot of ways,” he says. “But Jane made it bearable. She’s got a killer sense of humor, too. You know, you remind me of her in that way; you’d probably get along. She is…my saving grace, I think.”

His smile is quick, solemn. “We don’t talk much at the moment. We tend to lose contact when she’s in a relationship that’s uh, rather nasty.”

Keeping your voice soft, you ask, “What about your parents?”

“They’re gone,” he says simply. “Our father left us early on, but our mother…Mother died a few years ago, and uh, she wasn’t doing well by the end of it.”

Biting his lip, he seems uncomfortable with the confession. “What about you, hm? Did you grow up with a big, rambunctious family?”

Scratching the back of your neck, you reply, “No, not really. My mom has also passed away. It was when I was a kid, soon after my brother was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says softly. 

“Mmm.” He appears sincere, at least. "I remember her some. How she would braid my hair every Sunday night, how she smelled like flowers. After she passed, my dad…” you laugh a bit, “he would try to braid my hair the same way but it always turned out awful.”

Oh, Dad. You wish you had talked to him more before leaving for this trip that had felt so necessary at the time. Now, all you want is to be back at home on the couch with him, watching some mindless show. “Dad raised us as a widower, and he did a great job of it, too. It was just us and his parents.”

“They mean everything to me, John, and it would destroy me to lose them.” Biting your lip before you finish. “Just like they’d be destroyed if I didn’t come back home. It would hurt them to know that I'm hurting.” The last bit is a whisper, the words watery and weak.

He’s playing with your hair, entwining his hands in the curls. “I already told you that I won’t hurt you–”

You cut a sharp look at him.

“–Again.”

“We’ll see if you can keep your word,” you say, ignoring his wounded frown when you shift away, the movement pulling the strands from his fingers.

A tense few minutes follows the conversation, and you’re staring at the North Star, one of the few that you can identify. How many lightyears away is it anyway?

You’re lost in your musings again when he interrupts the silence. “Do you see that constellation?”

“Which one?” you ask. He’s pointing in the direction you’re already looking, but there’s no way to tell where he means.

Stiffening as he shifts over to you. “Up north there. It’s faint.”

At your helpless shrug, John quickly stands and disappears into his tent, leaving you to look around in confusion. Is he upset? Before you can get too anxious about it, he returns with a set of binoculars.

“These will help,” he says, smiling and returning to his seat beside you. After a few minutes of adjusting the lens, he hands them over.

It must be the fabric of your sweater, but it’s a well-timed jolt of electricity that shocks you when you touch, accepting the binoculars from him. A spark that means nothing, before you're facing the sky where he’s pointing again to no avail.

“Here, let me,” he says in a low voice, barely a murmur that flutters over you as he brings it back to your face, gently guiding your head into the right position. His hands are surprisingly warm in the cool night.

“It’s four stars in that milky cluster–they’re in a zigzag shape.”

You’re hunched over, staring hard at them as you scout out the cluster of stars. “Oh, there. I think I see it. What is it?”

“That,” he begins, “is the Vulpecula constellation.”

“‘Vulpecula?’” you ask. The word sounds familiar, at least part of it. Perhaps from your Latin lessons years ago. “As in...fox?” you ask, risking a glance his way.

He looks pleased, proud of you for some reason. “That’s it. ‘Little Fox.’ Smart girl.”

“Please, don’t call me that–I’m not a girl.” It's wrong, and it reminds you of the heated way he kept calling you his good girl yesterday after you told him otherwise. 

A wry smile that you once thought of as being dopey, but there’s nothing quite so innocuous in him. “No, I suppose not. Less…definable, huh?”

This praise sits wrong for various reasons, prompting a soft gasp that he hopefully doesn't hear, because this is the man you thought you had partnered up with on the trail.

“So what’s the story behind this one, then?” you ask, bringing the binoculars back up to your face as an excuse to avoid making eye contact.

“Hm,” he muses, and as if knowing what you’re doing, he lets his hand drift into your hair, twirling coils around his fingers again with familiarity. “Do you see that bright star in there?”

At your nod, he continues. “From Earth they look so close together that they appear as one, but they're really two stars. My binoculars aren’t strong enough to separate them.”

He moves in, thigh touching yours as he continues to observe the milky cluster. “One of them is a red giant. The constellation was discovered a few centuries ago–supposedly it’s a fox holding a goose in its mouth. A gift for the canine guardian of the underworld.”

“Wait–I thought you didn’t know any constellations?” You spent your first night making up patterns and meanings to them, back when you were starstruck and flirting. “I mean other than the Dippers.”

Affection teasing at his face. “Just the important ones.”

You aren’t even focused on the constellation anymore, just using the binoculars as a buffer at this point, scanning the celestial bodies. “You’re quite the charmer when you want to be.”

How many times has he used that to his advantage?

“Mm,” he murmurs. He’s still playing with the ends of your hair, bringing a lock up to his cheek a bit. Just finding any reason to touch, but at least he’s focused on the movements and giving you a reprieve from his gaze.

Staring into the fire now, you’re practically chugging the remaining wine in your mug. It dulls your wits, sure, but it helps your nerves.

Butterflies flit restlessly in the confines of your gut when John turns to look at you, to behold you in the firelight that casts his dark hair with red tones. It’s a strange, automatic reaction that has your eyes closing when his face lowers and he takes your mouth with his own. This is what he wants, you all moldable and willing to accept whatever he gives and takes.

It doesn’t really come as a surprise when he guides your mouth to his. This kiss lacks the frenetic need of your first night and the overt violence of yesterday. It’s meticulous, carefully played out. He manages to pull a reaction from you that you can’t quite hold back, not with the fluttery nerves that are growing in your belly.

The softness raises goosebumps in your flesh, and you’re hotly embarrassed when you separate, unbalanced in your own skin. He’s clearly going to map out your limits over the course of this arrangement.

It just leaves you unsatisfied and raw.

“Rusty–”

“Um, so I’m exhausted,” you say, blinking back the brine and letting loose a yawn that’s hopefully unexaggerated. “I can’t seem to shake it today. Is it alright if I head inside?”

“You should get some more rest. I’ve got something special planned for us tomorrow.” Taking your hand in his, he turns it over to drop a kiss on your palm. There’s hunger in his eyes, loosened by wine and the romanticism of a starlit evening.

It doesn’t bode well. Surely, he won’t consider your reprieve over in the morning, right?

“Something good?” you ask.

He smiles, “I think you’ll like it.”

Ignoring the gaze that burns a hole through your back, you return to the tent that houses your sleeping bags that are zipped-together. Twin coffins, side by side. Crawling into your side, you curl up on your side and try not to think about how a word like “tomorrow” could feel like a dreaded sentencing.

So you listen as he extinguishes the fire, pretending to be asleep when he enters. Listen as he removes his boots and slides in behind you. No wandering hands, just a firm arm wrapped around your middle as you’re drawn into him, fabric lightly snagging on the newly formed scabs of your abdomen, the back of your head tucked under his chin. You listen as he falls asleep like this, his breath slowing.

And if John’s quiet, consistent sounds beckon you into the abyss of sleep, that’s a secret that remains in this synthetic grave.