There’s only one thought in my mind: flee. I have to get away. I’m not safe in that cabin with him, not from him, not from myself.

I race out into the woods, heading toward his truck. It’s on a road. I can follow it. I’ll see someone eventually.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins makes me feel like Superwoman. Nothing can stop me. I’m flying over the dirt road, leaving everything behind, because what happened just now? That’s twisted.

I’ve heard about Stockholm Syndrome where a victim develops feelings for her captor. Could I have fallen into that so quickly? What other explanation could there be? He’s a mobster, a kidnapper, and I almost let him—

I can’t think. Shame wells up in me hot as my feet keep going, going, until a hard arm wraps around my waist.

“No!” I kick and claw at him but he pulls me rough against his body, solid as a rock. He holds me still, no problem, one arm across my chest, the other around my hips.

“I told you not to run,” he hisses into my ear and, damn it, heat snakes its way down my traitorous body at the rasp of his voice, the feel of his capture. He’s so huge and solid, and so warm as the cold air bites into my bare arms, my exposed legs. It might only be a few degrees above freezing.

“Let me go!” I still try, fighting for what feels like sanity. I don’t want him keeping me captive, doing whatever he wants to my body. After what just happened, I’m afraid I’ll let him. Even beg for it.

He doesn’t listen. He hoists me up and over his shoulder like he’s done before, as if I weigh nothing. He holds me there like a lumberjack trekking through the woods back to the cabin in long, strong strides. His large, strong hand rests firm on my ass. I squirm and hit his back, embarrassed, afraid, heart pounding in my chest.

Back in the cabin, he deposits me on a chair.

“What the hell, Olivia?” He paces in the kitchen, his broad chest heaving. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Out there in the freezing cold with no coat, no shoes?”

“I want to get away from you.” My voice is losing some of its fire, now that we’re back in the cabin. I think I might have cut up my feet. With the adrenaline starting to subside, stabbing pain takes its place.

He curses, massive arms crossed against his broad chest. There’s practically steam coming off of him, he’s so hot in so many ways. “Why the hell don’t you believe me? I’m keeping you safe.”

“Maybe because you kidnapped me?” The righteous anger flows through me once again. “You told me you work for the mob. And I’m supposed to trust you? Like you’re a good guy?”

He leans down, fists on the table, staring me straight in the eyes. “I never said I’m a good guy.” I swallow, nervous in his dark gaze, feeling trapped to the spot just by the way he’s looking at me. “But I do not lie. I mean it when I tell you, there are men out there looking for you who want to hurt you. I will keep you safe, as long as you stay here where I can do it.”

My shoulders slump under the weight of my entrapment. I wince as I move my foot. There may be a pebble lodged in it.

He glares at the floor. There’s blood, not a lot, but it’s there, dripping from one of my feet. We both swear at the same time. He starts off toward the bathroom while I pick my foot up and try to inspect the damage. It’s filthy with dirt and blood and hard to see how deep the cut is. I kind of tore myself up when I ran. I guess I should have at least waited until he had his back turned, out chopping wood or in the shed so I could get a good head start. Wearing shoes and a coat.

Angry, he crashes down into the chair next to me and slams a First Aid kit and a washcloth onto the table. He pulls my chair closer to him. I jolt forward, clinging on to the seat for balance. Gruff, he pulls my bleeding foot up onto his lap.

Instinctively I pull away, but he holds my ankle in an iron grip. “Don’t move.” His icy stare pins me to my seat.

Carefully, he brings the washcloth to my foot and begins to dab, gentle, cleaning it. I wince as he works, my foot tender and cut in several places. “Damn fool,” he murmurs, examining my heel. But his rough words contrast with the way he’s cradling my foot, touching me with great care. He sets it down on his thick thigh and reaches for an alcohol pad.

I flinch and try to pull away. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me with fierce command. I am not to try to move away. I stay put, biting my lip as he swipes it down. The alcohol burns, bringing tears to my eyes. He’s thorough, sterilizing every scratch.

“You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.” He bandages me, then reaches for my other foot. This time, I give it to him. As he repeats the process, it almost makes me relax. Almost. It stings as he cleans, hurts as he digs out a pebble, but he’s making sure I’m all right. I don’t want it to, but it hits me at an instinctive level. This man is taking care of me.

He sets my legs down carefully, looking at my bare arms and legs. “Is everything else all right?”

God, don’t let him do a full-body inspection. I already feel so vulnerable. Wide-eyed, I bob my head. “Yes, I’m fine.”

But he doesn’t accept my answer. “No other cuts? No scrapes from branches?” He trails his fingers down my arms, probing, then down my legs. I shiver, goosebumps forming along my skin. His fingers are so large and calloused from working outdoors. Earlier that morning, his fingers on my thighs, moving slowly between my legs, had nearly hypnotized me with need.

Emotions swirl, warring with each other, and I tremble at his touch. Why is this rough giant of a man treating me with such tenderness? I’m exhausted and frightened tears fill my eyes.

Satisfied that I don’t have any other injuries, he looks at me with possessive intensity. “You must not run from me ever again.”

“I won’t,” I answer quickly, wanting this over, needing to get away from him. I can’t think when he’s that close. The heat of his fingers lingers on my skin. His smell surrounds me as he sits so near.

“I can’t keep you safe if you run.”

“I promise, I won’t.” I might even be telling the truth. My heart is pounding, pumping me with the urge to flee yet again, but where would I go? To whom would I turn?

He shakes his head, frustrated. “That’s not good enough. You say you’ll stay but then you run.” He’s angry.

Tension grips my body. “Don’t tie me up again.” I hate sounding pathetic, hearing the whine in my voice, but panic rises in me again at the thought. I’m so helpless. He could tie me right there to the chair if he wanted. I couldn’t do a thing about it.

“You need to stay where you’re safe.” He grabs me by the waist and hauls me right across his lap. I shriek and kick at the assault, but he holds me steady and strong. The big shirt I’m wearing rides up, leaving my white cotton bikini briefs on full display. He fastens a hand on my hips and presses another on my upper back, holding me down.

"What are you doing?" I grasp his leg, the chair, but I can't get any purchase. He’s too strong. Wriggling against him, the denim of his jeans rubs against my bare thighs.

“You need to listen to me.” Smack, his large hand comes down hard across my plump ass cheek. I stiffen and scream, my bottom burning from his hand, my face burning from embarrassment. Is he giving me a spanking? This can't be happening.

Whack, his hand rains down on my other cheek, catching me full and square across my rear. "This is for your own good," he grunts, his hand on my upper back holding me in place.

“Please, don't." I squirm, helpless, as he spanks me, his firm, broad hand landing again and again on my upturned ass. Tears fall from my eyes and I close them, trying to shut out what's happening. This might be the most humiliating moment of my life. I haven't been spanked since I was a little kid, and then it was a quick whap to my bum to scold me for doing something like almost touching a hot stove.

Knox adjusts me, both of his large hands to my hips, positioning me directly over his groin. I can't help but feel the giant bulge pushing through his jeans, rock hard and driving against my panties. I gasp and twist, but it only grinds me against him as he brings his hand to my upper back yet again, forcing me to submit.

His hand is on my ass again, but he’s caressing it now, his breath coming fast and hard as he draws those calloused fingers along my panties, then down over my heated flesh.

"Don't run from me," he commands as his fingers trail along my inner thighs. I'm panting, heat licking through my core. I'm terrified, and part of it is because I'm frightened of him. But part of it is because of my body's reaction. Arousal is spiking through me, hot and shameful.

His heavy hand comes down again, this time hitting more skin, catching me on the sensitive underside of my bottom and my upper thigh. I clench my teeth and close my eyes, trying to block it out, but that only makes me more aware of the feel of his hands on me and that thick, long shaft right where I’m most sensitive. I want to rock against it. I wonder if I could do it, just once. Maybe he’d think I’m struggling to get away.

He spanks me at the base of my ass, and this time the tips of his fingers trail, so gently, so briefly right at the edge of my panties between my legs.

I twist, frantic. Worse than him spanking me would be him touching me and discovering that it's turning me on. I don't know why it is. Everything about this is wrong, but something about the way he's holding me down, the roughness of his jeans, the dominant touch of his palm is making me writhe with need.

He spanks me again, following it with a soft caress along the curve of my ass, leaving my nerves tingling and overloaded with the mixed sensations. There’s no mistaking the meaning in his touch. He's claiming me. With both his hot palm spanking my ass, and his loving caress along my quivering flesh, he’s marking me as his.

Everything in me should revolt. I'm trembling and whimpering, but I can’t change the fact that I’m desperate for his fingers to slide down a little further.

"Shh." His voice is soothing as he strokes the tender flesh that he’s spanked. "Hold still now. Hold still for me. I need you to feel this. You can’t run from me." He adjusts me again, tilting my ass up to him, and I don't even struggle. I let him do it, wanting to feel his hand on me again.

The next smack gets me straight across my bottom. But he doesn't stop there. He trails his fingers down around the globe of my ass cheek, slipping right between my legs. Right where he can feel my panties are hot and damp.

I can't hold back the moan that escapes my lips, low and needy.

"Fuck." He growls, ferocious, one hand digging into my ass cheek, anchoring me, as the other pushes against my arousal. "You’re wet. You like your spanking."

"No!" I scream. The power of mortification surges through me. With his hand off my back, I grab onto the chair and hurl myself away, scrambling across the room.

He stands, towering like Goliath over David, his chest heaving, his eyes wild as he looks down at me.

"Get away!” I yell, tears in my eyes, a sob tearing at my throat. “Leave me alone! You’re a monster, beating me like that. Hurting me."

He swears and brings his fist down with a thunderous slam on the table. Then he heads to the door. Before he storms out, he turns back to look at me one last time. "Don't you even think about leaving."

Then he's gone.