Chapter Text
She’d hoped for her stepdaddy’s death many times. Prayed for it, sinful as that was. Wished on stars for it. Imagined it. Closed her eyes and saw him keeling over of a heart attack like Daddy did six years ago. Or of finding him bluish-white and turgid one morning, an empty bottle of sleeping pills nearby, like it’d been with Mama after they got the letter about Robb.
She had no image of Robb to use. He’d died eighteen months ago toward the end of the Second World War. They had only a neatly folded flag and his dog tags in lieu of a body to bury. But Sansa couldn’t help but imagine her brother in bloodied bits. She didn’t try to, but nightmares flood in when the actual memory is vacant. (And yes, she’d imagined her stepdaddy that way, too.)
Now having seen the man dead, she couldn’t claim to be disappointed. For once, reality was better than the dream.
The uncannily tall stranger with the half-charred face had strangled Petyr with one of Daddy’s old belts. Sansa had thought that was fitting. Petyr always hated Daddy. They’d all sensed it, probably Daddy most of all, but never thought it was anything but the static that exists between two people who rub each other the wrong way.
Then Daddy died unexpectedly.
Then Petyr swooped in to help Mama and Robb and Sansa through the difficult times.
Then Robb was shipped to Europe and never came back.
Then Mama swallowed a fistful of pills.
And now Petyr turned all kinds of colors before settling on that same bluish-white Mama had been. Also fitting.
It was funny, really. Petyr was a slight man – barely of a height with Sansa and slim from top to bottom – yet in his final moments he managed to thrash and crash all around the kitchen, leading the burly stranger about like a mean dog on a short leash.
But the stranger’s big, calloused hands never lost their grip. His biceps never unclenched. His elbows never unfolded. As Petyr threw his weight around, imbued with a physicality Sansa had never seen in him before, the stranger’s arms and hands never failed. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Sansa stared down at Petyr’s lifeless form. Funny how it invoked no fear. Corpses were supposed to scare people. But the gleam in Petyr’s eyes that she’d noticed but not understood since she was twelve years old was gone. The hunger in his eyes that she’d noticed and understood too well since the age of fifteen was gone. The possessive sheen she’d noticed since Mama died, when Sansa was freshly turned nineteen, was gone.
The stranger had let her have her moment of inspection. The man wasn’t prone to talking ad nauseam, and she liked that. Petyr spoke to hear his own voice. And if she didn’t look sufficiently enraptured by his words of wisdom, she was punished for it. In subtle ways, of course. Him saying the cornflower blue fabric she’d asked him to pick up from town was out of stock, when she knew the stuff was going dusty in Mrs. Manderly’s little shop. Or a complaint about something she’d done. Pants over-starched. Pot roast too dry. Pancakes not fluffy enough. But even those complaints came out backhanded, leaving her with no position from which to defend.
“Did you use a different recipe, sweetheart?” he would ask with a bitter lemon look on his face. If she dared to say, “No, what’s the problem?” he’d flash a fake smile and say, “I never said anything was wrong! I just noticed the difference from your usual pancakes.”
This might seem a trivial complaint. But it didn’t end there. He wouldn’t let her go to any of the church socials. He didn’t even let her go to church, saying it was too far to travel every Saunday and if she had sins to confess, she could confess them to him, and if she wanted to hear scripture, she could read Mama’s well-worn bible.
But the worst were the touches and the feeling of visceral revolt they inspired. When his fingers dusted the base of her neck where the dress’ round cut left a bit of skin exposed, she felt nauseated from her throat down to her belly. When his hand pressed to the small of her back while he reached around her to set his bowl in the sink, her entire spine stiffened like it was made out of iron links instead of porous bone and spongy cartilage.
When he kissed her on her lips, it felt like she was swallowing a scream.
When she woke to find him in her bed, claiming to have come in the night to comfort her from one of her “night terrors”, her skin was suddenly two sizes too small and as itchy as cheap wool; the place where his hand rested casually on her hip or waist was on fire.
When she woke up one morning and felt something crusty on the back of her left thigh – something that was milky white under her fingernails when she scraped it off.
“I’ll rig ‘im up. You put the kitchen to rights,” the stranger spoke.
She nodded and met his eyes. The confidence she saw there earlier today was gone. The predatory hunger that made her tingle between the legs was gone, too.
He thinks I’ve never seen a dead body.
She let out a breathy chuckle, “You don’t have to worry about me crackin’ up, mister.”
He nodded but didn’t look too convinced. But he would be. After tonight a chapter in her life would close. A chapter that was dark and sad and lonely, and at times frightening. Like when she’d wake after having dozed off on the sofa to find Petyr watching her from the wingback chair. He never pulled his eyes away quickly enough, because he wanted her to know. Probably considered it seduction.
It had never felt like anything other than assault.
She took stock of the kitchen. Petyr’s thrashing had done little true damage. No holes in the walls or broken furniture, just some things on the floor that should be on the table. It wasn’t as if any disturbances would be noticeable, anyway. Sansa kept a neat house, just like Mama always had, but it was still a seventy-year-old farmhouse. The corners where wall met wall were nicked, wallpaper peeling back. There were gouges in the wooden floor planks. The screen door was busted. The roper Petyr bought Mama as a wedding present – a beautiful four burner with a center grill, oven, broiler, and two storage drawers – had eternally stained knobs and a spot on each corner where the ceramic coating had been chipped off by Sansa swinging around to grab something out of the Frigidaire with a cast iron skillet in the other hand.
Ten minutes later the stranger emerged down the stairs, his footsteps reassuringly heavy even though most would call them ominous.
She nodded at him as she smoothed her hair, “You’ll come back then?”
“That was the plan, little bird,” the man leaned his weight on his forearm on the Frigidaire.
She nodded again, “S’pose it would look suspicious if I was keeping dinner warm for someone…”
He shook his head, “Will be gone a couple days.”
“Oh… Yes, I s’pose that makes sense. Here,” she ran into the dining room, opened the hutch doors, and pulled out the antique tea pot. She opened the lid and retrieved a ten-dollar bill. When she turned around the stranger was watching her from the threshold.
Her heart thudded. He now knew where her cash was kept. Not to mention he could easily find the family jewelry with only a bit of searching.
Had she misjudged him?
Probably, her brain said.
Her heart said ‘no’ – he was a dangerous man, but he wouldn’t hurt her or even steal from her. The glint in his eyes was nothing like Petyr’s. It spoke of a desire to have her – not to own her. A desire to be the recipient of her affection, not to force his own unto her.
Sure enough, he walked to her in measured strides that did little to ease her racing heart. He took the ten only to put it back in the teapot, gingerly put the lid back on, and placed it back in the hutch that Mama had considered the centerpiece of the house.
“Not interested in your money, little bird. You know what I want.”
She nodded though she felt herself shaking. Not with fear, exactly, but… nervous anticipation? He was no boy like Matthew Reed had been when she fooled around with him in his daddy’s pickup truck after the senior dance. The stranger was a man. With a man’s hands, a man’s frame, a man’s beard. Wisps of black chest hair coming up through his collar. A man’s strides. A man’s strength. A man’s voice (it reverberated inside her body).
A man’s past…
And she was just a girl, despite the few kisses and one fumbling interaction she’d had with the opposite sex – all more than a year ago because since it was just Petyr and Sansa she’d been treated like a ward. Only going into town with Petyr. Petyr screening her few phone calls. Petyr warning her about the desires of young men. How they would use and then discard her and leave her with an unwanted baby that Petyr would have to help her get rid of. It was an odd warning; one she couldn’t quite buy. For one, around here they were good, God-fearing boys, raised to work hard and not ignore their responsibilities. And two, despite knowing what having a child out of wedlock meant for a young woman, she hadn’t worried about her reputation in years. Losing one’s entire family has a funny way of resetting priorities.
“Be a good woman and put some food in a sack for me,” the stranger spoke while the knuckles of one hand stroked up her bare arm. She wasn’t sure how it could soothe so completely.
With another shaky nod she went to the kitchen. Five minutes later there was a turkey sandwich wrapped in a cotton napkin, a hunk of good cheddar cheese, and two pears. That along with a handful of butterscotch candies went into the cloth sack, but it hardly seemed like enough. She chewed her lip while wondering what else to add. Too much and it would be a warm mush by the time he had appetite for it. Not enough and it wouldn’t last him the two days he planned to stay away.
She opted for a banana and some salted crackers, trying to remember if they might be stale but figuring a man like him wouldn’t be choosey.
He laughed from where he leaned against the Fridge, watching, “That’s plenty, little bird.”
She nodded, “Don’t want ya goin’ hungry.”
He took the now-tied sack from her and lifted it up and down a few times, “I’ve gone weeks at a time with less than this. You’re feedin’ me like a king.”
She made a face, “If you think this is bein’ fed like a king, then what’ll you say after I fill your belly with pot roast and glazed pork chops and roast chicken?”
He let a pleased moan out, but she knew it was for effect, “I’ma ‘cuse you of trying to find my heart through my gullet.”
She felt her cheeks flush and hoped that in the evening light it wasn’t noticeable.
It must’ve been. The stranger stepped up to her and put one large paw on her neck, leaning in to speak in her ear, “But don’t worry about it being a one-sided effort. I intend to find your heart, too… and the first place I’ma search for it is between your legs.”
She swallowed. His voice was resonant even in a whisper. It sent a shiver of pleasure from her ear to the very place he was speaking of. And worse, he seemed to know it, because she could feel the skin of his unscarred cheek crease against her own cheek. He was grinning.
He moved back but didn’t drop his hand just yet. She nodded at him, “Seems a deal is a deal.”
He nodded right back, “I’m a man of my word, on the rare occasion I opt to give it. Now I’m about to give it for the second time in one day, which I reckon is a record.”
She shook her head, “No need. I know you’ll come back.”
His brow furrowed down over his eyes, and he looked at her as if he couldn’t quite make sense of her. Whatever he had been about to promise, it wasn’t that he’d come back, and the thought filled her with inexplicable dread. She wanted him to come back, though she wasn’t sure why. Fear of being alone in this big farmhouse? Perhaps. Disappointment that she’d never experience the things he’d said he’d do to her? She didn’t like to admit that was also a possibility.
He nodded very slowly, still trying to make sense of her, it would seem, “Yes, I’m definitely coming back, less there are men with guns and dogs wanderin’ your property when I do… in which case ya might not see me for a spell.”
She nodded, “I understand.”
His thumb stroked her jaw line, “What I was gonna say, eager little bird, is if you get any notions to tell the sheriff the truth, or to mention my presence at all, you’d best shake those thoughts clear out your pretty head. ‘Cause if you tell a soul about me, I’ll know. And I’ll kill you.”
Her eyes went wide. He would kill her so easily?
Of course he would. He’s a murderer. A murderer you’ve only known for five hours!
What flickered as fear quickly turned to indignation. Catelyn Stark’s daughter came out and she jabbed a finger into the man’s broad chest, “I don’t know how ya operate, mister, but I don’t renege on a deal…” the same finger now pointed toward the ceiling, signaling the upstairs bedroom of one Petyr Baelish, “seems to me I owe ya a debt. A debt that won’t be paid with a bit of fruit and cheese and turkey.”
The good side of his face contorted into a pleased smile, which she was too insulted to return just yet, “You’re a strange little bird. And a fiery little bird. S’pose this is my first lesson to not ruffle your feathers.”
His sudden turn to playful (and rather flattering) speech disarmed her. She didn’t like that, so she crossed her arms and turned to look out the screen door at nothing. The cold shoulder, Mama called it – a skill all young women had to learn since it wasn’t proper to holler at your husband and since men weren’t much bothered by hollering, anyway.
She held the pose long enough to make Mama proud but gasped when a strong arm wrapped around her waist. The stranger pulled her tight against him, so close that she could smell the days’ worth of sweat he wore, only it didn’t disgust her like Robb’s sweat and Petyr’s sweat and even Daddy’s sweat did. No, the aroma entered through her nose and traveled straight down her spine like it was a gas pipe, only to blow a warm tickle against her lady parts just as his crude words had done moments ago.
Once again, he spoke in a whisper almost directly in her ear, “On second thought, I like when your feathers are ruffled. If time weren’t of the essence, I’d give you a chance to take your anger out on my cock.”
Her mouth fell open. Even a sheltered girl from rural California knew he was referring to… a certain sexual position that involved the woman bearing the brunt of the effort.
He stepped back and chuckled, “Close that mouth before I put somethin’ in it. God, you’ll be the death of me, girl.”
Now her eyes went wide as, once again, she knew what he was referring to but had never done it and wasn’t sure how…
Just as she thought she might explode from embarrassment, he had straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and wiped the humor off his face, “You know what to say?”
It took her a few seconds to nod, but the subject he was referring to was sobering enough to clear her mind of unholy images. She glanced at the clock, “Yes. But best I call sooner rather’n later. Don’t know many men who drink tea after nine.”
“You know many men?” he grinned.
She huffed loudly. He chuckled and headed out the screen door, stopping only long enough to lift the sack in gratitude and mumble, “See ya in a couple days, little bird.”
Earlier that day…
After three days of trudging in a zigzag pattern across the state of California from west to east, sticking to the dense woods and counting his blessings that not one but two rainstorms had kept him company (washing away his scent to any hounds that might be after him) Sandor came upon a farmhouse that might be abandoned but for the sheets hung out to dry and the chickens pecking at the earth in a large, fenced off area.
His stomach rumbled at the idea of the food that would be inside that house, but he didn’t move yet. He had his freedom, however long it would last, and wasn’t going to risk it by running into the house without taking proper measure first.
He’d fantasized often about springing himself free, but in the end it had been a combination of dumb luck and Mother Nature that sprung him.
He’d been among the Folsom State inmates who – through good behavior and physical fitness – had earned the right to help build a new road. A long, hot bus ride delivered the men to an even longer and hotter day of physical labor, six days a week, weather permitting.
They’d been using dynamite (well, they were assisting a special engineering company that was using dynamite) to blast through mountain rock and soil for what would be a tunnel. Sandor was helping clear away said rock and soil when he felt his body start to shake. He looked at the other men and saw they were shaking too, which meant it was actually the ground beneath them that was shaking. A Texas native, his brain didn’t recognize that it was a shifting of the earth’s plates. He thought it was a distant jackhammer or – well, truthfully, he didn’t have much time to think through the possibilities before he was fighting for his life and the very air in his lungs.
Rock and dust surrounded him and the other men. Shouting and screaming was heard outside and within. The rest happened in a haze. Fighting for breath. Shaking off debris. Crawling over rocks and maybe bodies. Sliding down an embankment and landing in what was either a big puddle or a shallow pond. Crawling some more, then walking, before his brain realized he was alone in the dense California woods somewhere east of Folsom Lake.
At first, he was so disoriented that he didn’t even think of it as escaping, just surviving – just getting as far as possible from what had nearly crushed and suffocated him.
A few more minutes later, he realized he had a choice to make: try in earnest to return to the construction site or keep moving in the opposite direction.
It was an easy decision. Serve the remaining 15 years of his 20-year sentence for killing his brother, or take a chance at getting away? A smarter man might have realized that 15 years guaranteed was better than the chance of a life sentence if they caught him, an escapee.
No, not a smarter man. A coward.
The days of walking gave him plenty of time to wonder and worry about whether they were even looking for him. Through the cloud of dirt had anyone seen his big body crawling away? If not, did they think he was dead and buried inside the tunnel? And if they were assuming him dead, would they eventually realize they were wrong and search for him? And if so, how far and for how long? And, perhaps most importantly, in which direction?
Logic would dictate that not just any man could survive in the unforgiving wild, and much of California was still wild. Meaning, if he was tasked with searching for an escaped convict, he’d probably assume the man went toward civilization, not away from it. Shed his denim work shirt with his inmate number stitched into it. Get to the nearest road. Hitchhike. Keep hitchhiking until he got somewhere far, far away. Mexico, ideally.
And if they were expecting Sandor to head for civilization, then he was heading in the right direction.
Not once had he heard the distant braying of hounds or shouting of men. That gave him some peace that they either weren’t looking or weren’t looking in this direction.
Finally, he decided to creep closer to the farmhouse but still saw no signs of inhabitance. Nor was there a vehicle to be seen. Still, Pa could be gone with the car, Ma home with the kids.
But if there were any kids, they were unusually quiet. So was Ma, for that matter. Still, he crept quietly to the house and peered through each window on the ground floor – finding no signs of an occupant in the kitchen or sitting room or what he could see into the hallway.
He entered the house through a busted screen door that led into a sort of mudroom off a kitchen. There was no soup or sauce simmering on the stove. No roast or pie baking in the oven. Not a smell to be sniffed; not a sound to be heard; not a person to be seen.
Hunger was what drove him in, so he decided to be quick about raiding the Frigidaire then be on his way.
Unfortunately, hunger made him clumsy. He dropped a tin foil wrapped block that smelled like meatloaf. He froze, waiting to hear a voice calling out or the sound of footsteps. With an apple between his teeth, he stood stock still for what felt like an eternity, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest. He had no weapon but his fists, and while he considered them deadly, farmers tended to have shotguns or hunting rifles.
But no sound came.
He was alone.
The house was empty.
He smiled; his teeth still buried in the apple.
He devoured the apple and the leftover meatloaf and decided to make the most of his luck. He walked upstairs, hoping like hell that he’d find clothing that would fit him so that when he eventually did come to some town or a road where he could hitchhike, he wouldn’t be doing it in prison blues.
He didn’t find clothes.
He found her. Stepping out of a bedroom calling out, “Petyr? Thought you’d be in town until—” She looked up, saw a man that was definitely not a Petyr, and her mouth fell open.
“Scream and you’re dead,” he warned in a low voice.
She nodded shakily then took in the sight of him as he did her. What she would see was a man in dirty, torn, prison-issued clothes. Scrapes on his already gruesome face from tree branches and thorns. Hair no doubt a tangled mess.
What he found was his absolute opposite. Long auburn hair in a neat braid that screamed country living not urban vanity. Fair skin, a blank canvas except for a dusting of freckles over her nose. Big blue eyes that looked more confused than afraid.
Tits. Hips. Two things he hadn’t seen in the flesh in five years.
“You’re a prisoner,” she whispered.
He took a step closer. She took a step back.
“Who else is here?”
She shook her head rapidly, “No one. My stepdaddy won’t be home until this evening.”
He snorted, “Stupid girl. You ought to have said he’ll be home any minute. That he’s even bigger than me. That he always has a pistol on his hip like some kind of west coast cowboy.”
She shook her head again, “He’s a small man. And he doesn’t like guns. Says a real man only needs this weapon,” she tapped her temple.
Sandor snorted again, “Sounds like a pretentious fuck.”
She nodded.
He moved closer again. She took another step back but wasn’t screaming or running or going deathly pale or pleading for her life.
“Why aren’t you shaking like a leaf, girl? Begging me not to hurt you?”
“You’re here ‘cause you’re desperate, right? You escaped and need a place to hunker down? Or maybe you just stopped for food? How long’ve you been on the run?”
“No more fucking questions,” he snarled.
“You asked me questions first!” she snapped back.
“Stop splitting hairs!”
He was treading water because he was truly at a loss. Despite the reputation others affixed to him in stir, he was no murderer. He had killed once and it damned sure was justified even if society and the court system didn’t agree. But now this girl had seen him; if he left her alive, she’d call the police. If they didn’t know he had escaped, they would then. They’d also know where he was – his only head start would be the time it took for her to call after he left, and the time it took the authorities to show up to question her and then organize a search. With hounds. And no rain on the horizon.
“What’d you go to prison for?” she asked.
“Murder,” he answered. Technically, it was manslaughter, but anything with the word ‘slaughter’ in it sounded worse than a word like ‘murder’ or ‘homicide’.
Her eyes widened fractionally, “Who’d ya kill?”
“My brother,” Sandor spit on the floor.
“Why?”
“‘Cause he deserved it.”
She nodded shakily, “I believe you.”
“Stupid girl,” he snorted.
“Would you prefer I accuse you of lyin’?”
“I’m many unsavory things, girl. A liar ain’t one of them.”
She shrugged, “Then perhaps you should be sayin’ I’m a smart girl.”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he paraphrased his earlier question.
“I am afraid.”
“Not nearly enough,” he stepped closer, but this time she didn’t step back.
Her eyes darted down to his chest then back to his face, “Seems to me you ought not leave a trail of bodies in your wake, less you’re tryna get caught.”
“Lotsa killers are too deranged to think about the consequences of their actions.”
“Are you?” her brows lifted.
He shook his head slowly, “So why aren’t you so very afraid of me, then?”
She sighed, “‘Cause I was thinkin’ of killin’ my stepdaddy tonight, though I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull it off. I don’t wanna go to jail. Not over him.”
“No, you don’t. Just like I didn’t want to go to jail over him, but I did anyways.”
She nodded nervously, “But it occurs to me we can help each other...”
He blinked at her for several long minutes, “How’s that?”
“You need a place to lay low? I got plenty of space. And I can go to town and listen for gossip and news. I can pick up a paper to see if there’s a manhunt and find out where they’re searching. I can be your eyes and ears while you stay here and eat well and rest.”
“Hmpf. And in exchange I let you live? I let you drive to town to be my eyes and ears and chance that you won’t return with the sheriff?”
“I won’t,” she shook her head, “Because you’ll do somethin’ for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Kill my stepdaddy,” she spoke the three words matter-of-factly and devoid of emotion, as if she was asking him to feed her chickens in exchange for room and board.
Sandor snorted incredulously. She’d just told him a few moments ago she wanted the man dead, yet he’d mostly ignored it. Sounded like the petulance of youth. Girl couldn’t be more than twenty-one. Might be as young as seventeen. He didn’t know and didn’t care. Her stepdaddy probably grounded her for sneaking out to see a boy and now she wanted the man dead.
“Why?” he asked.
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away, “Because he deserves it.”
“Why?” he repeated more sternly.
“I… I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
Sandor arched a brow. The girl glanced up at him long enough to see his reaction and frown before looking away again, “He touches me. I mean, not there, but on my back and arms and… and sometimes he kisses me on the lips… and sometimes he comes to my bed at night and… well, I think he does things while I’m sleepin’.”
Sandor heard his own growl. The offense she was hinting at was nothing compared to what he’d heard of throughout his hard life. His own brother was a rapist, Sandor was sure. And in clink there were all sorts of men who’d done heinous things. Things that turned even Sandor’s iron stomach. One fella killed his old lady over cold mashed potatoes. Diced her up with a hacksaw and stuffed her in the garbage and somehow thought no one would ever know. Another man – oh he was popular with the other inmates – had been convicted of a string of child murders. Little boys who were defiled before and after the moment of death.
So this Petyr, who didn’t sound particularly threatening, lying in bed beside his adult stepdaughter? Giving her pecks on the mouth? Maybe touching her honeypot or fucking his hand while she slept? Shouldn’t even register to Sandor as wrong.
But it did.
Because he’d been trying to ignore the fact that the girl stirred something in him, and not just in his trousers.
He decided he’d kill the fucker, but only if he could think of a way to make it look either accidental or like a suicide, and only if the girl would go along with that story.
But he decided to push his luck a bit. See how far he could get with this little murderess, “You speak about letting me hunker down here, sleep on something other than the forest floor, eat something other than berries. But a man’s got needs that go beyond food and shelter,” he lifted the tip of her braid between two dirty fingers.
“Oh,” she breathed by way of response, “I… I believe I know what you’re referring to.”
He chuckled lightly and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I’ll kill your stepdaddy, but we need to make sure it don’t look like murder. In exchange, I stay here as long as I want. I’ll earn my keep ‘round the place – I’m not built to be idle – but you’ll keep my belly full and my bed warm. Do we have a deal?”
He could tell her mouth was dry by the way the words stuck in her throat, “As long as you want?”
That was the part she’d homed in on, and it made him respect her. She was willing to cook and fuck – she recognized it as a fair price for the services he’d render – but she wasn’t quite ready to agree to do it for life.
He figured he’d want it for life, less she turned out to be a nag or a nut, but he tempered his response, “Maybe a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe forever, if no one ever comes looking. I always wanted me a nice big house and a pretty little woman.”
“Oh… I see…” she breathed.
He pulled away to see her cheeks flushed red, and he suspected it was equal parts fear, embarrassment, and arousal. She was a young thing in her sexual prime. He remembered how easily his cock got hard at the most benign sights when he was her age. And he may not be a looker, but he was a man, meaning he possessed the thing every girl her age wanted, even those too snooty to admit it or too sheltered to know the reason their cunts leaked at the sight of a well-built male.
As seconds passed in silence, he thought she would deny his request and then he’d be back at square one – wondering whether his freedom was worth killing an innocent girl. Wondering if he could kill an innocent girl even if he decided the freedom was worth it.
Then, she spoke again, in the same breathy voice, “But… when I’m warming your bed… and also when I’m not warming your bed… you won’t… hurt me?”
He felt relief shoot from his belly up to his chest as he shook his head, “Only if you ask me to.”
He could tell that one confused her. She was an innocent little thing, present murder scheme notwithstanding. He wondered if any man had popped her cherry yet. He’d never found innocence particularly alluring, but maybe only because good girls didn’t typically associate with the likes of him. He was a man who found his company – short term as it was – with women who’d been around the block. Women who knew a pretty face couldn’t compensate for a flaccid cock.
But perhaps this girl had just enough worldliness in her to allow an element of mystery. She was innocent in some ways, but she wasn’t completely naïve, and he felt himself becoming enthralled.
“I s’pose we have a deal,” she spoke in a voice trying to sound strong while holding out her right hand for a shake.
He took her hand, as thin and delicate as bird bones, and shook it gently. He smiled to himself thinking that she was like a bird in more than one way. Pretty as could be, but in a gentle, natural way; no kohl-lined cat eyes or red rouged lips. She also spoke a lot. Chirping her answers to his questions with false confidence that perhaps wasn’t as false as he thought. (He’d find out soon enough.)
“Then I s’pose we’ve got some plannin’ to do, little bird.”