Page 81 of The Darkest Hour

Every tree looked the same.

Every shadow stretched long and menacing in the dim light.

I couldn’t tell if we were circling back or heading in a straight line. All I knew was that I needed to find a way out of this, and fast.

Finally, we came to a small clearing.

Havoc stopped and withdrew the knife from my throat.

I exhaled a shaky breath, my heart still pounding in my chest. But before I could gather my thoughts, I felt the cold steel at my back again.

I sneered. “Can you fucking relax with the knife?”

“I have trust issues.”

“You have more issues than that.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps, you’re right.” Then, with a swift motion, he began cutting through the material on my body suit.

“What the fuck?!” I tried to move away.

He held me there. “You won’t need this outfit anymore.”

The sound of fabric tearing echoed in the stillness of the forest, and a cold chill swept over me as my skin became more and more exposed to the cool night air.

“This is unnecessary.” I tried again to twist away, but Havoc’s grip was firm.

Soon, he tore away the bodysuit piece by piece, leaving only my yellow bra and matching underwear.

When the last remnants of my bodysuit was ripped, all the fabric fell to the ground.

He got in front of me and twirled that knife in his hand. “Aren’t you more comfortable now?”

I glared at him.

“Hmmm.” He took a step back and slipped his gaze over my body. His gaze lingered hungrily over my form, caressing each curve and dip with intensity like he’d never seen a half-naked woman before in his life.

I shivered.

“Quite the view.” He lifted the side of his top lip in a sneer. “In fact, I would say you are picturesque. It’s taking everything in me to have some sense of control.”

I opened my mouth in shock. “This is you in control?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell.”

He smirked. “You definitely worked for Paris and spent a lot of time in the UK because bloody hell is a quintessential British expression.”

“Thanks for that breakdown.” I tilted my head to the side. “Now can you get this rope off my wrists and give me some privacy?”

He came over and began to undo the rope on my wrists. Once he did, he tucked the rope into his pocket. “Your hands will be free, but understand this. There will never be a time where your hands are free and my back is to you—”

“Scared of me?”

“Terrified.”

I studied him and saw not one ounce of dishonesty on his face. “I’m not going to pee in front of you, so you will have to turn around.”