When Katrin’s dad dropped her at the door of her new home, she was shaking. Whatever illusion of cool she’d managed during the wedding shattered as they approached the house and pulled into the drive.
She said goodbye to her father in a hollow voice. He turned his cheek to her as though expecting a kiss. She didn’t lean over and give him one. Instead she quickly let herself out of the car and hurried toward the front door of the two-story ranch house.
The house was beautiful — white and gleaming, with rust-red shutters and a tidy front porch. But Katrin barely noticed. She was distracted by the motorcycle in the driveway, and then by the bike’s owner, who was standing on the front porch, looking large, imposing, and grim.
She tried to avoid looking at him as she walked up the steps.
“I didn’t go in yet,” he said, stopping her in her tracks.
She gave him a quick glance, then looked down at the ground again.
When he spoke, it was with an almost charming nervousness — he wasn’t at all the cocky bastard who’d hit on her at the bar. “I, uh … I know I’m supposed to … the guy’s supposed to carry the girl over the threshold.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting suit pants. “You probably don’t want me to carry you. But I thought we ought to go in together.”
She nodded. That was almost … gentlemanly. She refused to look behind her, but she knew her father’s car was still there, knew her dad was watching her. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Let’s do it.” She tried not to notice Pistol’s massive biceps. The tilt of his hips as he leaned against the porch rail. The way his chest muscles seemed the strain the too small suit. She wanted to rip it off him — every article of clothing. Wanted to lie on the bed while he showed himself to her, while he turned at her command and displayed his broad chest, his muscular shoulders, his tight ass…
Jesus, nerves were making her restless. Horny. She needed to calm down. Pistol turned and pushed the key into the lock, then opened the door and motioned for her to go in first. She saw him pick up a duffel bag and a whiskey bottle from beside the welcome mat before he followed her in.
Nice. A drinker. What sort of bastard had her dad married her off to?
Pistol shut the door behind him, and instantly, Katrin was afraid. Afraid, because now he could do anything to her. And while he hadn’t shown himself to be a bad guy so far, there was no telling what sort of act he might have put on. She hadn’t felt safe with her father, but she felt even less safe with this massive, tattooed stranger.
But to her surprise, he didn’t say a word. He looked around the house. Examined the provided furniture — it all looked drab to her. Drab and formal. There was a small office on the first floor, and some of Katrin’s things had been delivered there. She nearly laughed at the ridiculousness — just when she’d finished unpacking at her dad’s house, he’d had it all boxed up again and sent here.
She went to the living room and found Pistol standing there, staring at the wall.
“Do you…?” she started. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to ask. Something stupid maybe, like What do you want to do for dinner? or Do you need any help unpacking?
Apparently, all he had was the duffel bag. And the whiskey.
Mostly she wanted to make conversation just so she could get a sense of where they stood. This man was so different from the lively smooth talker she’d met at the bar last month. And while the memory of their wedding kiss still burned on her lips, while the mere sight of him made her panties damp, she knew she had to be cautious. Pistol could be incredibly dangerous.
But if he’s going to hit me, going to rape me, going to … to kill me … I’d rather know that now.
Before she could find a way to finish her question, Pistol took the whiskey bottle and stalked off through the kitchen. She heard the back door open, then shut. A few moments later, she crept into the kitchen and peered out the window. Pistol was sitting on the back porch, drinking straight from the bottle. She turned and pressed her back to the wall. Slid down it and sat on the floor with her train spread out around her and her arms wrapped around her knees.
She wasn’t going to cry. She was done crying. And she wasn’t going to let Pistol do anything to her. She might not have a gun of her own, but there was a knife block on the counter. Some of the decorations the house had come with looked big and heavy enough to be used as weapons. She’d do whatever she had to in order to keep herself safe.
She glanced around the kitchen. White wallpaper with light blue diamonds. Lacy, baby blue curtains. An elegant, round glass table with high-backed chairs. There was even a centerpiece on the table — a tall, thin vase of fake lilies.
She stood up and walked around, opening various cabinets. Everything she could possibly need was here. Mugs, plates, drinking glasses, wine glasses, beer glasses … a food processor, a juicer, all sorts of baking tins…
Dad really expects Pistol and me to live here together, like husband and wife.
The fridge was fully stocked. Eggs. Orange juice. Veggies. In the freezer, various meats.
She slipped a knife out of the knife block and continued her tour of the house. A dining room with a small chandelier and an antique buffet. A den with a huge, flat screen TV.
She wandered upstairs. There was a small bedroom, with pale yellow walls. It would make a good nursery, she realized. Her father had been cheerfully hinting over the past couple of weeks that she shouldn’t wait too long to start a family with her new husband. She’d been too appalled to respond. Her father actually thought she’d have some stranger’s baby? Nothing was too crazy for her to believe anymore.
She moved on to the master suite. A spacious beige bedroom with generic paintings on the walls. A massive attached bathroom. Large glass-and-wood shower stall. Sparkling white granite countertops. His-and-hers sinks.
She turned away.I can’t do this. This is insane.Some of her boxes had been brought up here. She needed to get organized. She set the knife on the nearby windowsill, letting the curtains hide it. Then she painstakingly got herself out of a gown it had taken two helpers to get her into. She hung it in the empty closet and searched her boxes until she found a pair of cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. She dressed, then went to the bathroom to wash off her makeup. She stared at herself for a moment. At the wet mascara remnants under her eyes. Her pale, washed-out face.
What would you do, Mom?
Would you run? Would you give him a chance?
Her mother didn’t answer.
Katrin returned to the bedroom.
She started unpacking, just for something to do. She kept an ear out, half dreading the sound of Pistol’s footsteps, half wishing he’d come in so they could talk about this.
Clothes. Books. Orientation packets from the nursing school. Classes started tomorrow, but she wouldn’t be there. She tried to find shelves or hanger space for everything, but some of the stuff she just consolidated into one box and shoved it in the closet.
She couldn’t find the photo album. What had her father done with that? She searched for it frantically, but it was in none of the boxes. Tomorrow, she told herself.Tomorrow I’ll go downstairs and check the boxes in the office.
Eventually she was too exhausted to unpack anymore. The stress and anxiety caught up with her, and she knew she had to go to bed.
She retrieved the knife from the window and placed it between the mattress and the box springs. Turned out the light, crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.
The house was silent.
How was she supposed to sleep, knowing Pistol was outside? That he might come in at any minute, and might expect to…
She couldn’t think about that. She had to try to sleep.
She closed her eyes and immediately found herself thinking about the kiss. Pistol’s rough lips, the scrape of his stubble, the slight taste of whiskey and cigarettes in his mouth. The moment he’d started to kiss her back, and the way her whole body had responded to him…
She slipped a hand under the covers and ran it tentatively between her legs while replaying the kiss in her head.
She stroked herself, making gentle circles around her clit through her panties. Her breathing roughened. She imagined the kiss going further — imagined Pistol pulling her against him, running his hands down her back to cup her ass. Kneading her closer, his tongue plundering her mouth…
She let out a little gasp and opened her eyes.
Footsteps on the stairs.
She lay still, trying to calm her breathing. Moved her hand to the edge of the mattress and let it dangle over, so she’d be able to pull out the knife if necessary. Through half-closed eyes, she watched Pistol’s shadowy figure teeter in the doorway. Her throat was tight with fear.
He watched her for a moment — or maybe he was just staring into space, who knew — then crossed the room unsteadily. He stank of alcohol and cigarettes. She heard him undressing. Then silence.
What was he doing?
The bed creaked. The mattress dipped slowly as he lowered himself onto it. She held the covers close to herself as he crawled under them beside her. His breathing was harsh. She only hoped it drowned out hers.
But hers got shallower and louder as her terror grew. She squeezed her eyes shut.Stay strong. Stay strong.
“I’m not gonna touch you.”
His low, rough voice startled her into silence. She swallowed. Didn’t answer.
“I promise. I won’t do anything to you. I’m not like that.”
What did a promise mean from a criminal?
He didn’t say anything else. But he also didn’t touch her. After a while, his breathing slowed and evened out. Was he really asleep?
She stayed up well into the night, waiting.