Thorn comes back inside sometime after I’ve fallen asleep. When I wake up the next morning, he’s not in bed. I pull on some clothes and pad out into the main room. He’s up already, making coffee in the kitchen. On the couch is a thick afghan and a pillow.

He’s distant all that day, barely talking to me unless I say something to him or ask him a question. And even then, he seems to come out of a fog, turning to blink at me as though he’s forgotten I’m there.

As the day wears on, he goes from simply silent to almost radiating tension. When the sun goes down, he pulls down the whiskey bottle and pours himself a few shots. Then he switches to beer.

That night, as I’m getting ready for bed, he comes into the bedroom and startles me from behind. His mouth comes down on mine, rough and demanding. He takes me silently, almost savagely, and it’s wanton and hard, and I want it so badly I almost cry that he’s come to me at last. Afterward, he climbs into bed with me and doesn’t say a word. He falls asleep almost instantly.

The next morning, he’s a little better — a little more cheerful — but it doesn’t last long. As the day wears on he grows more brooding again. He spends long stretches outside, standing guard in front of the little cabin like a watchdog. That night, he comes back in again, and we eat dinner in silence. And when it’s time to go to bed, he comes in with me, and takes me again, hard, fast, and frantic, like it’s our last night on earth.

I know — or rather, I sense — that the story Thorn told me about his family, and about his cousin Jimmy, is what’s eating at him. But I don’t know how to help him. And every time I try to bring up the subject, the words die in my throat. Because when he looks at me at those moments, his eyes are dark with warning, and impossibly far away. Every moment of intimacy we’ve shared seems lost then.

I try to tell myself I should just be content with what I have. The sex is almost frighteningly good, after all. Even when Thorn looks at me like a man possessed. Even when he rolls away from me afterward, or when he holds me so close and so tightly I almost can’t breathe.

He’s just my guard, after all. Or my captor. Or my protector. I don’t know what he is anymore. Is this Stockholm Syndrome I’m feeling? Or something else?

The truth is, I do know. I just don’t want to admit it. Not to myself, and definitely not to him.

I spent a good part of my childhood and most of my adolescence watching my mother try to make it work with an MC president. I have early memories of my dad living with us. Except for the most part, those memories are of a large, dark man smelling of leather and smoke, his voice deep and kind of frightening for a little girl. I remember the arguments they used to have. I remember one year, when I was four or five, listening through the closed door of my bedroom as my mother yelled at him for not being there for my birthday celebration. She was angrier than I had ever heard her be. The funny thing was, it never occurred to me that the big mountain of the man I knew as Daddy would be there to watch me blow out the candles or open my presents. He was someone who lived with us sometimes. Nothing more.

My parents finally split up for good when I was ten. Though my mom would never bad-mouth my father in front of me, I know she was sick of him considering his old lady and daughter as a distant afterthought in his life. Listening to her try crying quietly in her bedroom at night so I wouldn’t hear — watching her try to make it work as a single mom — taught me the lesson that men like my father couldn’t be trusted. They were too far inside themselves. They didn’t know how to love. It was folly to hope for more than they could give you.

My mother loved Oz, I know. Hell, maybe she still loves him. All these years later, she’s never brought another boyfriend home. She’s lived like a nun, being a mother and caretaker to me. And now, being a caregiver to her parents in Venezuela. As much as I love her, the path of her life has always read like a cautionary tale to me. I told myself I’d never be with a man like Oz. The heartache wasn’t worth it.

And now here I am.

The truth is, I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with him. I don’t even know how it happened.

And I’m just realizing it right at the moment when he’s pulling away.

I don’t know how to keep him. I don’t know how to stop the way I feel. Worst of all, I know that every night, when he comes to me, I won’t push him away. I want him too much. I’m afraid that by the end of this I’ll be half-crazy, and ruined for other men. Because as young as I am, I already know there could never be anyone else for me like Thorn.

God. I must be the stupidest person on the planet.

During those days when Thorn is so distant, I find my mind going back frequently to the image of my purse strap peeking out of his bag the first day we got here. I’m lonely here now that he’s barely talking to me. And I keep wondering whether my cell phone is in my purse. And my pepper spray, and my license and credit cards and all the rest.

My tickets to the outside world.

Two weeks ago, I would have grabbed that purse and run like hell. I still could, I know. I have shoes now. And like Thorn said, if I could make it down to the main office, I’m sure I could beg them to help me find a way out of here. But now, the idea dies in my mind almost as soon as I have it. I know down deep that Thorn is the only one who can protect me. I know I’m safer with him than I would be anywhere else.

And worst of all, I don’t want to leave him. I want to stay here, next to him. I want the Thorn I saw the first week we were here at the cabin. Before he told me about Jimmy, and closed himself off from me.

With that Thorn here with me, I might not ever want to leave.

But as it is, I’m getting homesick. And my loneliness gets worse every day without Thorn to talk to. I’m desperate for a friendly voice. Just for a little bit. Just to remind me that there’s still a world out there, and that I had a place in it. And that someday, maybe I’ll be able to go back to it.

One afternoon, Thorn is sitting at the small table cleaning the gun he always carries, with tools from a small pouch that he must have brought with him. I’m actually jealous that he has something to occupy him. I’m sitting on the couch, flipping through the few channels we get on the small TV, with my Kindle by my side. By now I’ve read the everything in the entire library, some books more than once. Hell, I’ve even read through a cookbook about Vietnamese food that’s on there. And I don’t even like Vietnamese food.

I’m trying to decide whether to re-read one of the books when an idea hits me.

“Thorn, could we maybe take a trip into the nearest town?” I ask, in what I hope is not too much of a pleading tone. “Get some playing cards or magazines or something, to pass the time? I could buy some boo—”

“No.”

I suppress a sigh and try again. “We’re going to start to run out of food soon…”

“I’m aware of that,” he bites out, jaw tense.

“So, maybe we should go stock up on groceries?”

“No,” he repeats. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Well, what are we —”

“Isabel!” he shouts, making me jump. “Will you just shut up and let me handle it!”

“Then handle it!” I yell back. “I’m turning in circles around this place! I feel like I’m going crazy! It’s a special kind of torture to make me just stay here with nothing to do but wander around the cabin and look out the window!”

“Maybe I should tie you back up then,” he snarls, rounding on me. “Then you won’t have the decision to make whether you should walk in circles in the bedroom, or the living room, or the kitchen. How would that be?”

“Why are you being this way?” I cry. “It’s not my fault we’re here! None of this is my fault! It’s not my fault I was born to a man who makes enemies easier than he breathes! I don’t want to be in the middle of all this any more than you do! You act like I’m personally responsible for making you do this job!”

“Jesus Christ, woman, I know that!” Thorn runs an angry hand through his dark hair. “But you’re sure as hell not making it any easier! You seem to think this is a little vacation honey—” He stops short. “We’re not here to have fun, Isabel. I’m here to make sure you’re not killed!”

“How the hell can I be killed if no one has any idea where we are!” I roll my eyes. “My dad doesn’t know, his men don’t know… Your club doesn’t even know!”

“Yes, and I’m gonna fuckin’ keep it that way,” he grits. “And not by taking you into town to go antiquing or some shite!”

“When the hell did I say I wanted to go antiquing! I said I wanted to go get some groceries before we run out of food and starve to death!” Thorn snorts, but I keep going. “And yeah, I was hoping maybe we could get some books or something to occupy our time! So I’m bored! So I’m human! Sue me! God, aren’t you bored, too?”

“Fuck yes, I’m bored! Jesus! But too fucking bad! This is my job! Whether I’m bored or not is irrelevant. That’s what being in an MC is!” He throws his hands out impatiently. “You do whatever is necessary, whatever your president tells you to do. Because it’s your duty. Even if your duty is complete bollocks, like playing bodyguard for some spoiled little MC princess!”

I recoil like he’s slapped me. I can’t believe after all of this, he thinks I’m spoiled. I can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through together — everything we’ve done together — he just thinks of me as some pathetic little girl.

“You know what, Thorn? Forget it!” I cry, stomping toward the bedroom. I spin on my heel and look at him with all the venom I can muster. “You are a fucking asshole, Thorn!” I hiss. “A fucking asshole!”

I slam the door behind me before he can reply and flop down on the bed, my chin trembling. I’m bewildered and upset that things between us got out of control so quickly. I already feel a little bad about it. I know Thorn is probably just as bored as I am. And I know he’s doing his best. But it’s driving me crazy that he won’t talk to me. And I guess I just wanted to goad him into saying something. But now we’re fighting. And even though I am just a little sorry, I’m more angry at him, and I’ll be damned if I apologize first.

A few seconds later, I hear a loud thump, and then the ever-familiar sound of Thorn leaving the house. I squeeze my eyes shut, let out a wail of despair, and try not to start crying. After all, crying is exactly what a spoiled little MC princess would do, I think bitterly. Fuck him. Fuck everything about him!

As much as I try to push them down, a few tears make their way to the surface and roll down my cheeks. Angrily, I brush them away. Well, here I am again. All alone. And things are likely to be even worse between us when he gets back. Even more silent and tense, as if that’s even possible.

I stand and go to the bedroom door. Opening it, I go to the kitchen and get myself a glass of water, which I drink standing over the sink. I make my rounds wandering about the cabin, looking at things I’ve already looked at a hundred times. Kitchen. Living room. Unused second bedroom. Bathroom. The bedroom I’ve started thinking of as “our” room.

Ha.

I’m contemplating whether maybe I should just try to take a nap, when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I notice Thorn’s duffel bag. Normally, it’s lying closed on a chair in the corner of the room, but right now it’s unzipped and sitting on the dresser. He must have opened it to take out the kit to clean his gun.

It’s right there. Not three feet away from me.

I could reach inside right now. Just to see if the purse is still there.

Ignoring the warning bells clanging inside me, I step toward the bag and put my hand in. Blindly, I fish around, and in a couple of seconds my fingers brush against a familiar strap. Guilt makes my stomach flip unpleasantly, but I tell myself I don’t care.

I pull up on the strap. The purse emerges from his bag like a fish on a line.

My God. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it, it feels almost unreal to be holding it again. A symbol of my life before all this. When I had no idea why my father was being so ridiculous, hiding me away like Rapunzel in a tower.

Before I ever met Thorn.

My hands shake a little as I unzip the main compartment and reach inside. I pull out my keys and set them beside Thorn’s bag on the dresser. Then my pepper spray. Then a tube of lip gloss. Then my little wallet with my money, credit cards and ID.

Finally, my hands close over the cell phone and lift it out.

I stare at the thing in wonder, like it’s a missive from another dimension. The screen is cracked just a little, and I remember it dropping to the ground when Oz’s men grabbed me. The phone is off, and for one terrifying moment, I think the battery’s dead. But when I hold down on the power switch, after a second the familiar light of the screen comes on, and I actually start laughing, I’m so excited.

I have to wait almost a full minute before the phone is totally powered up. Dozens of text messages and voicemails appear, most of them from Deb. I can only imagine how frantic she must have been, and how worried she probably is.

The phone doesn’t have a lot of battery left, and I only have two bars of service. But it works.

Maybe…

Maybe I could call Deb. Just to tell her I’m alive, and I’m okay. To let her know I didn’t mean to just disappear on her that night at Buzzy’s.

Just to hear a friendly voice.

I’m already smiling in anticipation of having a little connection with the outside world as I find Deb in my contacts and press the call button. Holding the phone to my ear, it’s actually comforting to listen to the familiar, normal ring.

“Hello? Izzy?” Deb’s voice answers. I feel an almost dizzying rush of adrenaline.

I’m opening my mouth to answer when a roar of anger behind me makes me drop my phone.

“What the fuck are you doing?”