Authors: Lydia Michaels
She drew her hands away
and stared. Impressions of her palms and fingers lay imbedded in the flat
surface. “What the…”
She traced the grooves
with her thumb, knocked lightly on the wood. Hard. How had she done that? Her
fingers curled around the knob again and twisted. Definitely locked. She
grunted and twisted some more. The antique metal knob snapped and broke off the
spike connecting it to the knob on the other side of the door.
Her brow creased as she
looked at the heavy metal handle in her hand. She tossed it aside. “Your house
is a piece of shit!”
Her bare foot kicked the
door. Her toes formed the slightest splintered divot in the wood. She huffed and
returned to pacing.
She paced for almost an
hour. Then she stared out the window. She really was on an Amish farm. In the
distance buggies passed and children dressed in black scampered, pushing bikes
without pedals—maybe they were scooters—along the sides of the road.
Dust kicked up from a
field as an enormous horse drawn wagon thing was pulled into view. Six
Clydesdales were tied to the front. It looked like a beer commercial.
“Here’s to you, Miss
Amish drug lord hostage…” she mumbled, but didn’t laugh.
Her fingers pressed the
window frame, but it wouldn’t budge. Dropping her head to the cool glass, she
frowned. The drop would likely kill her anyway.
Snooping through the few
drawers that were in the chest, she found little more than a couple shirts, all
the same, but varying in drab colors, and several pairs of black pants. One
drawer held women’s clothing, mostly chemises and pillow case things she
assumed were dated underwear. They would definitely not be touching
her
ass.
Shirts hung from the
pegs on the wall. They smelled like him and she hated herself for liking the
smell. She tried on the black, flat brimmed hat—giving herself the impression
of the Calamity Jane sort—and decided to wear it.
After retrieving the
water glass he’d offered her earlier, she refilled it with the room temperature
water in the pitcher. Her nose pressed to the rim and she sniffed. Dipping her
finger in, she sucked the drops off her skin and waited. It didn’t taste
poisoned, but who knew what he’d dissolved in it?
Do not take the brown
acid…
Her thirst out won her
better judgment and she drank it. The water was cool and soothing on her
throat, which was raw from shouting, so she poured another glass and guzzled
that one as well, and then another.
A while later she was
pacing again in her new hat. She was keeping the hat. Her steps grew quicker
and a bit lighter. She bounced off the balls of her feet as if it could take
away some of the pressure building in her belly.
Her legs carried her
back and forth, back and forth, until she could walk no more. Then she stood in
place and bounced, holding her thighs tightly together. A whimper whined past
her lips. She couldn’t take anymore.
Delilah slammed her
hands on the door over and over again, hoping he hadn’t left her in the house
alone. “I have to pee!”
Bang, bang, bang…
“Let me out! I have to go to
the bathroom.”
She hit the door harder,
rattling it in its hinges.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—
The door whipped open
and she jumped back. He stood, holding the handle, expression blank and
somewhat unimpressed. His mouth twitched.
“You are wearing my
hat.”
Uh, now it’s mine.
“I need to pee.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did
you break my door?”
“Faulty craftsmanship.
Totally not my fault. The knob just fell off. Maybe contact a contractor about
that. Look, is there a bathroom I can use?”
“I built this house. The
craftsmanship is fine.”
That definitely caught
her attention. The house was simple, but beautiful in its own way. She guessed
Amish folk built their own houses on occasion. This guy must be old school
Amish, because she’d watched a documentary once and they showed Amish families
moving into prefabricated homes.
Pressure in her bladder
cut off her thoughts. She looked at him pointedly and he sighed.
“Follow me.”
She followed him down
the steps and down a long hall. Inside a small room was a sort of water closet.
There was a basin and a pump and a sizable wooden box. He turned on a glass
lantern hanging from the wall and stepped back. She glanced at him
questioningly.
He angled his chin toward
the box. She looked at it and back at him. She scoffed. “You want me to go in a
box?”
“It is not a box. It is
a toilet.”
“It’s a latrine.”
He stepped in and she
immediately backed up in the small space. With a huff he lifted the square
wooden lid exposing a round porcelain seat. It looked like a toilet in a box.
“It is a toilet,” he
repeated, pulling a string she hadn’t noticed hanging from the wall. The toilet
flushed.
Well, how about that?
“Okay. Thanks. Get out.”
He shut the lid and
frowned. “You have terrible manners.”
“You kidnapped me. Do
you expect me to be nice? Sorry, you should’ve nabbed someone stupid if a happy
victim was what you were after.”
He sighed and left the
room, shutting her in to take care of business. After she finished she washed
her hands under the pump sink. It was cold, but neat. She didn’t understand why
he’d have a flushable toilet and not running water in the sink. Shaking off her
hands, she faced the door, feeling much better. She turned the knob.
He stood waiting for
her, a strange expression on his face. He looked…curious, and remorseful on
some level. Good. He should regret taking her. She had a life to get back to.
Speaking of which…
She folded her hands and
lowered her gaze, hiding her eyes under the brim of his hat. Demurely she
asked, “What now?”
He said nothing and
didn’t move for at least a minute. She waited him out. Slowly, he stepped
closer. Grit and dust on the bottom of his boots scraped along the wood planked
floor.
He tipped up her chin so
she was looking at him. The sexual lure of him hadn’t disappeared. She wanted
him the first time she saw him and it would have been a lot easier if he’d
turned ugly over the last twenty-four hours, but he hadn’t. He was still crazy
hot.
Crazy being the key word.
Her belly flipped with excitement and she
hated herself for being such a girl. She forced her expression to remain blank.
The backs of his fingers
slowly coasted over the curve of her cheek and around her ear. “You are very
pretty, Delilah,” he rasped.
Her heart hammered in
her chest.
You hate him. You hate him. You hate him.
She blinked,
needing the little break from his intense stare, but too stubborn to look away.
He tucked her hair over her shoulders and leaned close. Her stomach tightened
as it became clear he was going to kiss her.
Under the fine cotton of
her chemise her nipples pulled tight. His head lowered, a breath of space
between his lips and hers. His palm cradled her chin in a curved nest of his
fingers.
She slammed her foot
into his shin.
He grunted and drew
back. Intense eyes glared at her, appalled. “We
do
not
hit,
Delilah,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I do not kiss
kidnappers, Christian
Fock.
”
He drew back as if she’d
slapped him. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
The energy in the room
grew tight and heavy. Breathing audibly, his nostrils flaring as his hard gaze
bore into her. Okay, maybe calling him that went a little too far. Her chest
was going to explode if her heart raced any faster.
“Listen to me,” he said
slowly, quietly. “This is the last warning I will give. You will not speak to
me in a disrespectful manner. I am an elder and your mate. You will show
respect as I will soon be your husband whom you will be honor bound to obey.
This isn’t English society, Delilah. Do not make things harder than they
already are. I intend to provide you with a happy life, but your poor choices
and bitter words could change all of that. I do not want to punish you, but I
will if you continue in such a manner.”
Her mind reeled. First
of all, there was no way she was going to be this guy’s wife, mate, compound
ho, broodmare, whatever. Second, respect was something someone earned. It
couldn’t be demanded and she certainly wasn’t dishing out respect to some
farmer who was holding her hostage. And third, his threat scared the shit out
of her. She definitely didn’t want to find herself locked in some dirt-floor
basement with scary farming slaughter tools and jars of pig parts.
So she nodded.
“Good,” he said and as
if that was all that needed to be said his mood changed, substantially
lightening the atmosphere around them. “Are you ready for lunch?”
* * * *
Christian sat across
from Delilah and waited for her to take a bite of the sandwich he’d made her.
He wondered if she was a fair hand in the kitchen. He’d been making his own
meals for three hundred years and couldn’t deny that he was excited about the
prospect of finally having a wife—mate—to do the cooking for him.
Of course, his mother
sometimes prepared meals for him, but she wasn’t much of a cook either. His
mother was more of a revolutionary female, always hanging around the council
meetings, eavesdropping for news that did not concern her. If Christian had his
way, he would forbid his mother’s ridiculous intrusions. But she was a dear
friend of Eleazar, the bishop of The Order, and Christian had little authority
over his word.
In all truth, Adriel,
his mother, should have been a council member, but having a female on the board
was unheard of. Of the nine families that resided on the farm, the eldest male
member of each stood as a representative of the council.
Christian had no father
to speak of, so he was it. They were the smallest family on the farm, he and
his mother. The Schrock line was short, but Delilah would change all that.
Mated immortals shared immeasurable chemistry and that would eventually
outmatch her anger with being transitioned against her will.
Many mated members of
The Order took a modern approach to mating. It was ridiculous. The results were
cut and dry. Once an immortal was called, they either mated or died. The
females all came around eventually—for the most part. He did not see the point
in all the wavering and persuasion. It was necessary for them to mate and for
Delilah to be transitioned. Now they had eternity to work out the kinks. Once
the kinks were worked out he’d introduce her to the others and share his news.
The law stated that no
other could involve themselves with the personal affairs between husband and
wife—mates. Family law was to be decided by the male of the family and
Christian had always known he preferred tradition to the newer, lackadaisical
methods of family living.
He gazed at the face of
his scowling mate. She was going to take some work.
“Do you not care for
your lunch?”
“There’s meat on it,”
she said snidely.
He’d forgotten about her
little vegetarian statement earlier. It was absurd for a vampyre not to eat
meat. They survived mainly off of animal blood on the farm. She needed to
overcome this little issue.
“Delilah, we are Amish.
Our main source of sustenance comes from the animals here on the farm.”
“That’s barbaric,” she
whispered, her face turning a soft shade of green.
It wasn’t barbaric. They
treated their stock very well. In Europe there were no such rules. Their kind
simply fed off the hoof meaning they drank from human victims. Here, it was
only permitted to feed from one’s mate, the animals on the farm, and off the
hoof in a pinch. Human blood was suggested to be avoided, although it was much
more potent than the blood of animals.
Still, they never
drained their donors. They merely took what they needed and left the animals to
run and play. Their livestock was a lot happier than the corralled, tagged,
mass-marketed animals on other farms in the area.
“It is the cycle of
life. There are merciful ways of surviving off what we need. We do not
mass-produce our supply. We only take what we need to get by here on the farm.
We are not involved with the English world in trade like other farmers are.”
She slid her plate away
and stared at the floor, sandwich untouched. She needed to eat. She’d barely
taken his blood earlier. Her hunger beat at him and he sensed it was too soon
to make her feed again. His only option was actual food. It was his job to keep
her safe and healthy.
Christian sighed and
stood. Carrying her plate to the counter he dumped the sandwich into the
rubbish and placed the dish in the sink. In the pantry he retrieved a jar of
homemade peanut butter and jam from the last berry harvest.
“Do you prefer grape or
berry jam?”