Chapter 16

Avery

Before all this—before the failed wedding, the car crash, and the brooding, enigmatic mountain main I shared a bed with last night—I used to imagine how the first man to see me naked would look at me.

I dreamed of adoration. Love. Maybe a little vainly, I dreamed of his jaw hitting the floor of his penthouse and crashing through the ceilings of the apartments below.

I was sillier then. More naive. I was a dumb little girl who agreed to marry a billionaire I barely knew, just because my parents reassured me that it would look good for the family, and looking good was all I’d ever cared about.

I could never have dreamed of the weapons contracts and shady dealings going on right beneath my nose.

And I certainly never imagined that the man who I gave myself to would be anyone other than my husband…or that he would look at me with such complete disgust.

Jack hates me now. When he looks at my naked body and walks right back out the door, I know.

I’m still a virgin in the technical sense. No one has fucked me. I haven’t made love.

But now, it’s only in the technical sense—in the same way that my friends who used their mouths on their boyfriends and employed God’s Little Loophole were so-called virgins.

Before our little romp in the bathtub, Jack was sweet to me. Maybe a little naively, I thought we shared something beautiful and magical together.

Now, I know the truth. It’s exactly like my mother warned me, really.

He gave me my first orgasm (and my second…and my third…) and little ol’ me? I gave him exactly what he wanted.

Men can only love purity, and now that I’m not pure anymore, Jack can barely even look at me.

Clothes. I need clothes.

But there’s the first problem: right now, clothes are a luxury that I don’t exactly have.

Last night, my body felt divine. Holy, even.

It felt like something beautiful had blossomed between my legs and had stayed there. A little garden inside me, just begging to be sowed further.

But now, it feels like that little garden has withered, died, and rotted completely. No wonder Jack doesn’t want to look at me. I don’t even want to look at myself.

So. Clothes.

I race upstairs, fighting back tears. But I was never much of a fighter, and the tears come anyway. My sinuses burn. One hot, salty pearl after another boils up over my thick lower eyelashes. They stream all the way down my cheeks.

Stupid fucking crybaby. I have no reason to feel so sorry for myself.

I was warned. Mommy told me what men were like, and I didn’t listen. I acted like a slut, and now I’m paying the price.

Buck trots along beside me, whimpering and nosing at my knee. I know he can tell that I’m upset. But for once, this is a problem that petting a cute, shaggy dog isn’t going to fix.

I tear through Jack’s wardrobe, finding the smallest things I can. They still dwarf me with ease, but they’ll have to do.

A navy t-shirt with a pocket that brushes softly over my nipples when I put it on. It only serves to remind me of Jack’s gorgeous, terrible touch.

Pants, camouflage. I have to roll up the cuffs until they hang around my ankles like fat sausages. I take the waist in with one of Jack’s massive leather belts and tuck the t-shirt beneath it once I’ve pulled it tight. It reminds me of Jack’s big, warm hands encircling my waist.

A flannel. I tie it at the waist over the belt.

It smells like Jack, which I both love and resent. But it’s not like it matters—Jack’s clothes are the only option I have.

Socks made of thick gray wool. I put on a couple pairs, which helps stuff the pair of Jack’s boots I find at the bottom of his closet. It still doesn’t help much. Even when they’re laced completely, they’re way too big.

Jack’s feet are just as big as every other part of him, and my own feet have always been fashionably dainty and small. I clomp around in the boots noisily as I search for a coat.

I find one in the downstairs closet, along with a furry Jack-sized ear-flap hat. Jack’s gloves make my hands look like they belong to a tiny porcelain doll. A thick wool scarf wrapped all the way around my neck several times tops off the look.

I get a glimpse of myself in the sooty mirror next to the door and find myself laughing through my tears. I look like a little girl playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothing. But my father only owns neutral-colored suits and high-end sportswear. Occasional, he’ll put on a hokey Hawaiian shirt for when he needs his constituents to laugh at him a little.

Jack doesn’t dress like the men I’ve known in my life.

Jack dresses for practicality. Warmth. Comfort.

There’s nothing in his wardrobe that’s self-conscious or concerned with how others might view him.

Jack may be wild, but his style is simple. Just like his overgrown beard.

I clomp into the kitchen and locate supplies. A thermos full of water. If it can keep the heat in, surely it can keep the cold out.

A loaf of bread—when I raise it to my nose, it has the sour, yeasty smell of sourdough, though I know that Jack didn’t get it in any artisan bakery. He probably made it himself.

A bag of dark red jerky that I know must be deer. The buck he just hauled back will likely meet the same fate.

I stuff all my provisions in the only bag that I can find: a rough potato sack that I have to shake the last few spuds out of. I didn’t even know they still sold things like this…but what do I know? I’m just a vapid, innocent idiot who’s never even been shopping at a supermarket for herself.

No wonder I was taken advantage of so easily. Jack looks like he’s lived off the land self-sufficiently for the better part of his life. By comparison, I’ve barely lived.

I might be ruined. I might be a slut for liking the things Jack did to me last night.

But I’m done being too innocent to function.

My new life? It starts now.

I just have to face the blizzard first.

I catch a final glimpse of Jack out the kitchen window before I leave. He’s out behind the cabin, shirtless as the snow flurries around him, chopping wood.

Steam rises up off his hot, chiseled biceps as snowflakes fall and melt on his skin. Every time he brings the ax down to split another log, that sacred garden between my legs twitches again with life.

I stamp it out before it can trick me into making such a stupid mistake again.

Out the door, I grab one final thing on a whim: a Leica camera, the old kind, with a big, glistening flash bulb attached. I don’t know why I do it. I’ve only taken what I’ve needed from Jack’s cabin so far, and it’s never been like me to steal.

Stealing is bad, after all. If Jack’s hot, slick tongue slipping between the lips of my pussy weighs heavy on my conscience, imagine how stealing must feel.

Maybe I want to be able to capture the exciting moments of my new life, wherever it takes me.

Maybe I just want something of Jack’s. Something solid and useless to remember him by.

Or maybe, I’m just a dumb little rich girl turned kleptomaniac now that I don’t have anything to call my own anymore.

It doesn’t matter. Not really.

I’m leaving. Leaving Jack, leaving this cabin, and leaving my old life behind for good.

As I begin to trudge out through the thigh-deep snow while the wind whistles around me, I can finally feel good about one thing.

Jack is safe now.

From Adam, from my family, and from whatever ill might befall me for learning what I’ve learned about them. For trying to run.

No—for succeeding to run. Thanks to Jack, I’ll be harder to track than ever now.

I owe him my life, and as a result, my thanks.

I just wish the best thank you I could give him wasn’t leaving without a word.

Buck stands at the door, whimpering softly. I can tell from his little doggy whine that wherever I’m going, he wants to come along.

He probably knows what an idiot I am and wants to keep me safe.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say softly, pushing him back with the toe of Jack’s over-sized boot. “I have to do this on my own.”

I can hear him scratching at the door after I close it. I hope he can forgive me.

I hope Jack can, too.

For the first time in my life, I’m finally faced with reality.

You can’t always get what you want.