Lifting my hand, I hovered it over Flame’s face. And without making contact, I ran it over his forehead, down his slightly crooked nose, over his full lips and through his beard. A smile tugged on my lips as I continued running my hand just above his arm until I came to his hand. His hand was upturned, showing me his palm.
Picturing the sketch from my drawing pad, I floated my hand directly over his. His hand was so much bigger than mine. So much rougher, covered in tattoos of flames, piercings boasting silver metal studs, and scars. My hand was small and pale in color, yet I had never in my life seen anything that looked as perfect to me as this sight.
A moan slipped from Flame’s mouth and I stepped back, feeling the immediate loss of the image of our enjoined hands, of being so close to the man I had chosen—no, needed to save.
Flame tried to turn over, but the ties on his hands and feet prevented him. Even in slumber, a frustrated frown marred his forehead.
I warred with what to do. He wanted to be free, had begged me to set him free. I knew in my heart that he would not, could not, hurt me.
Resolved, I moved to his bed, and careful not to touch his skin, set to the task of unthreading the ties. When the last ripped piece of linen dropped to the floor, Flame’s body immediately folded in on itself, curling into a small ball in the middle of his bed.
When I stepped back, I could not help but think that, lying like this, he appeared to be a small child. So broken and afraid.
I stood there for several minutes, wondering what could have happened in his life to make him this way. Then my eyes drifted around the rest of the small cabin, and I set to cleaning. I needed to help him in some small way. And I could clean. I could not do much, but I could do that.
Everything was in disarray. The biggest culprit—bloodied rags, dried and littering the floor.
I made quick work of picking up all the litter, then came to a standstill when I reached the only clear area in the room, the only place not cluttered with things. Glancing down, there was a trapdoor built into the floor. I bent down to inspect the scratches and dried blood staining the wood. I could smell the bucket before I got to it, and unable to stand the smell, decided it would be the first thing I cleaned.
A few hours later, the cabin was clean and tidy, and I was preparing the ingredients for soup. Just as I had begun to chop the vegetables, an agonized cry cut through the cabin.
Dropping the chopping knife, I fled from the kitchen and ran into the open bedroom. Flame was writhing on the bed, his fingernails raking at his arms. His back was arched, his body facing the side, his hips rocking back and forth as though someone was behind him… as though…
My stomach dropped, caving into an empty pit at what the position of his body portrayed—Flame pinned down, someone behind him, someone...
No…
And he was screaming in pain. Unable to stand what I assumed was happening in his head, I ran round to the far side of the bed. Flame’s face was scrunched up in agony. His eyes squeezed shut as he panted through his mouth. Then I looked down. He was excited. His manhood was erect and pushing against the material of his leather pants. Yet as excited as he appeared to be, the pain on his face, and the toe-curling tortured cries streaming from his mouth, told me he was anything but.
He was trapped.
He was trapped in his mind.
Reaching the head of the bed, I stood back and called out, “Flame!” His body thrashed still, so I inched closer. “Flame!” I tried again, but the cries from his lips were coming stronger, drowning out my voice.
Rushing to the very edge of the bed, I lowered my head and cried out “Flame!” for the third time.
This time Flame’s body bowed, his eyes snapped open, and on a loud roar, he leapt from the bed, his large hands landing on my arms. Flame’s huge strength pushed me backwards, until my back slammed against the wall, knocking the air from my lungs.
His fingers dug into my arms bringing tears to my eyes. I looked up to find his black eyes boring holes into mine. This was not the Flame I knew. This was killer. The Hangman with the blades.
With gritted teeth and a low growl of rage, his calloused hands began to move toward north. My stomach shredded when I realized he was going for my throat. He was going to choke me.
He meant to kill.
Closing my eyes, I tried to think of what would calm him down. But his hands had reached my shoulders. I racked my brain, searching for an answer, when all I could think of was what calmed me.
My entire body shook with fear, but I managed to inhale a deep enough breath to desperately sing, “This little… light of mine, I’m… gonna let it shine. This little light… of mine, I’m gonna… let it shine. This little light of… mine, I’m gonna… let it shine. Let it… shine, let it shine… let it shine…”
Flame’s hands stilled on the side of my neck as the words trailed off to a complete stop. His breathing was strained, the warm crackled puffs of air flowing over my face. I was frozen to the spot. But then his hands began to shake profusely, and as I forced myself to open my eyes, I was faced with two lost inky pools staring at me in confusion. I held my breath, as Flame’s eyes rapidly flitted from side to side. And then I saw it, a flicker of recognition jolting him from the darkness possessing his mind.
On a shocked hiss, Flame staggered backwards until he crashed against the far wall and he slumped to the floor. His hands lifted in front of his face, and he stared at them as if he could not believe what he had just done.
His hands lowered.
His lips shook.