Wallace
"Of course you don't," he responded to her comment on her lapse of memory from that time, when she'd been found in a puddle of her own blood -and other fluids, not all of them her own- in the forest. "You've never met me before." Her brows tugged downward in confusion, wondering how, then, did he know her name. He shrugged casually, a fluid roll of a large shoulder, and introduced himself as Woolf.
A deep laugh erupted from his large chest when her eyes slid to the cut on his shoulder. She was just thinking how light it was when he answered her thoughts as though she spoke them aloud. Her eyes jerked back to him, wide and fearful. Afraid he would learn more than she wanted to share. He was like the colt, Kharon? He could hear her thoughts?
And that was all it took to unlock it. Her mind bloomed open, uncontrollably thinking of all the things she wished never to reveal to him, or anyone. Helpless once those dams burst open.
Looking a little dull there, metal man. Bet a good dunk in the lake would fix that. Oh, or would you sink? Her snide remark, pushing buttons she'd been unaware of in her naivety.
The sexy, wicked grin that answered. His power over metal, over the very iron in her blood. Puppeting her, holding her in whatever position he wanted. Wallace is no name for a girl, he'd said. Named her Lacey. Formed a blade of his iron and drew an artist's masterpiece of intricate lace at her dull brown hips, permanent lingerie to pretty up the plain and boring creature she was.
Here, in the present, she shook her head and held back a strained moan, her eyes tightly closed. She was glad Kharon was not near, hoped he was far enough not to hear these dark memories play out without pause. Dumped out in such a rush and slipped through her fingers as she struggled to clutch them back in.
The iron beast had taken his sweet time, had groomed her matted and tangled hair with such care until it flowed freely as it probably never had before. But something was still missing, and his blade had cut it cleanly off. Like a child's. She was so young, had to fight and stand tall and resolute to be seen as her own woman in their eyes. And so quickly, so easily, returned to the child she'd tried to bury behind a sharp tongue and piercing eyes, a quick wit.
She choked, her heart clenched tight in her chest, and she jerked her face away from Woolf as her darkest truth helplessly flew through her mind.
He had been so experienced, an expert at his deliciously wicked trade. He'd known her body better than she ever could. Had held her just so, had touched her just right, tasted her, heated her. He spoke the foreign language of her body.
He'd made her want it.
Self-hate, self-disgust burned so hot in her breast as she lifted her eyes to Woolf again. Angry tears pooled there, but held his gaze boldly and bitterly, daring him to say it; what they all thought of her. That she got what she deserved, that she'd been asking for it with her pushy ways and taunting comments. Impossibly soft hair flowed around her, a gift from Ashley after seeing the disgrace of her sheared mane.
She wanted to blame him for pulling it all out of her mind, but knew with great frustration that it had been her own lack in control that couldn't hold those hatches down from him. Couldn't keep her own damn secrets locked away.
Why have you come.
