Call Her Mine Read online

  He saw her in fitted pants with pennies in her shoes and a red sash that matched her lips tied in her hair. Adorable. His.

  He tracked her quickly and wasted no time approaching her. What he had not noticed in the dreams was her decorated skin. She had paintings everywhere, her flesh its own little masterpiece. He had never seen anything like it before. And her jewels… nothing adorned the lobes of her ears, but other places…

  His body shivered as he remembered seeing her naked for the first time. She had been so proud at first and then shy and modest and a touch insecure. It was silly for her to second guess that he would see her as anything other than beautiful. She was incredible.

  However, she needed a great deal of acclimating to the farm. Her foul language simply would not do. And he had been honest when he explained the kind of wife he desired. Christian believed in traditional Amish living.

  He was an elder and as such he would be held to a certain standard. He would not tolerate a disrespectful, brazen wife.

  Yet, she was acting as docile as a kitten now. He dabbed away the last of his blood from her face and frowned. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused. Every now and then she muttered something that made no sense at all. She was in shock.

  Christian put the cloth in the basin on the nightstand and frowned. He did not expect her to react like that. From what he understood, feeding after transitioning was a natural occurrence. According to other males on the farm their mates naturally took to the vein directly after waking from their transition.

  Their mates also probably knew what to expect, you dummkup.

  He appraised his mate and sighed. She was not getting any better.

  “Delilah? Delilah, can you hear me?”

  She didn’t answer. Pursing his lips together, he stood. Perhaps she just needed time. Christian removed his shirt and drew the blinds. He would sleep and then they would address matters that needed addressing.

  * * * *

  Li gripped the sheets to her chest as the man removed his shirt and climbed into bed next to her. His body settled then drew her close.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, what’s happening?

  She lay stiff as a board and too terrified to blink. She waited, his breathing slowly evening out. She needed to get the fuck out of there.

  After several long minutes she thought he’d fallen asleep. Barely moving at all, she eased out of bed, first sliding her calf off the edge of the mattress and bending her knee so that her foot pointed toward the floor. Little by little, she contorted her limbs and oozed out from under the covers. Last came her shoulders.

  Her feet touched to cool ground and her toes pulled her hips along. In a Grinch Who Stole Christmas sort of slither, she twisted and slipped silently off the bed. Kneeling on the floor she took a moment to breathe. Peeking over the edge of the mattress, she silently breathed. Christian still lay sleeping where she left him.

  Stealthily, she stood and tip toed toward the door. The handle was old and metal. Her fingers curled around the knob and she silently begged the Gods of Escape not to let the door squeak. Please, please, please…

  Her fingers twisted and the heavy door quietly opened. Slipping through the narrowest crack, she slunk into the hall and let out the breath she’d been holding. The house was unfamiliar, but simple enough. Gathering her chemise at her knees, she quickly skittered down the hall—very burglar in a striped shirt and mask.

  When Delilah found steps she nearly stumbled from rushing down them so fast. Light glared through the window in the front door. Her fingers reached for the handle and she suddenly drew her hand back, clutching it to her chest.

  What if I’m not having some tripped out reaction to drugs? What if I actually am on a farm full of Amish vampires?

  She rolled her eyes. Too much late night TV, Li, but Amish vampires would be a cool premise. Barn raisings could be treacherous—all those wooden splinters flying around willy-nilly. And how would they farm in the sun—

  Focus! Right. Escape.

  She reached for the handle and opened the door. Waving her fingertips in a shard of sunlight just to be sure, she sighed when nothing happened. Only you would believe such crap.

  She glanced up the steps one last time—still no Christian. She took off. It was May and by the placement of the sun she imagined sometime in the early morning. Her legs carried her swiftly to a cluster of trees and she paused. Her feet were slimy from the dewy grass. She frowned at the black soles, awkwardly lifting her foot.

  Once she caught her breath she took a minute to look around. Field after field lay in the distance, all in the valley surrounded by green mountains. Houses dotted the emerald canvas here and there, but no sign of anyone she could ask for help. She spotted an old stone barn in the distance and thought she saw smoke. Not having much choice, she ran in that direction.

  The land had more of an incline than she imagined, yet she was barely winded and she’d been going at a dead run for over five minutes. Her stamina was amazing. Her steps slowed, her trajectory curling around the stone barn like a ball player runs the bases.

  The scent of smoke was sharp and outdoorsy. She crept around the corner of the building and spotted a man tossing scrap wood into a contained fire. He was singing. She listened, her fingers gripping the corner of the barn. He really wasn’t very good, but she sort of recognized the song. He was singing Nirvana.

  Definitely not Amish, then.

  She cleared her throat and he turned, his face was younger than his body, still showing youth around his eyes, yet his shoulders and arms were that of a hard working man’s.

  His glare sliced through her—not the welcome she was hoping for from an outsider. She drew back, but it was too late. If he were part of the cult—which he could very well be with that cold look in his eyes—he wouldn’t help her.

  “Who are you?”

  She stepped around the corner and into full sight. “I’m Delilah. I need help.”

  He frowned. “How did you get here? This is private property.”

  “Please. I just want to go home. I was taken by a crazy man who drugged me—”

  “Drugged you?”

  “Yeah. I think it was acid, or tainted Kool-Aid, or maybe even bath salts. I don’t know, but I don’t have much time. Can you help me?”

  He looked at her attire. “Where did you get that shift?”

  She looked down and yanked the thin fabric away from her front where her nipples poked indecently through the sheer material. “The crazy guy gave it to me. I think he wanted me to join his cult. He’s staying at that Amish farm over there.”

  The man tensed. “Did you say Amish?”

  “Yeah, but they aren’t very Godly. I’d keep my distance if I were you.”

  “What was the crazy man’s name?”

  A little voice in her head told her to stop talking. Reluctantly, she asked, “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Her lips pressed tightly together. She thought for a moment, sensing the Nirvana singing man might actually be a member of the cult. “Look, if I could just use a phone—”

  “You will not find a phone here, pintura.”

  Delilah jumped at the sound of Christian’s voice in her ear. Strong fingers wrapped firmly around her upper arm. She gave the other man a pleading look.

  “Yours?” Nirvana guy asked Christian.

  Christian’s expression was blank. “Mine. I’ll thank you to keep this to yourself, Dane.”

  The man propped a four by four under his arm and suspiciously eyed Christian. “Why all the secrecy?”

  Christian shifted his weight and she wondered if he was afraid of what the other man might do. Refusing to give up, she burst out, “Please help me! He’s crazy. I don’t belong here! He kidnapped me and thinks I’m his mate. You have to help me!”

  The man barely batted an eyelash, seeming completely unmoved to get involved with her plight and suddenly she was plucked off her feet and hoisted over Christian’s shoulder. “Oomph!”
/>   She kicked and screamed. “Somebody help me! Put me down! Help!”

  He did nothing but haul her back to the house she’d just fled. As they made the journey back, her mind stumbled over the absurdity of her situation. She knew she’d someday die. It was inevitable. But being held hostage by an Amish cult was about as disappointing as choking to death on a piece of shrimp. It was improbable, yet here she was.

  When they reached the inside he carried her directly upstairs and plopped her on the bed. “Stay.”

  “What do I look like, a fucking dog?”

  He sighed and shut the door before she could get up. She jumped off the bed and went after him, but the snick of a key in the lock drove her to a standstill. Her hand jiggled the handle, but it was no use. The door wouldn’t budge.

  * * * *

  Delilah paced the plain bedroom for a good twenty minutes, but her mood only soured. Passing the door for the hundredth time she snapped and slammed her palms against the heavy wood. “Let me out of here!”

  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 s
aid 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.