Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 939(@200wpm)___ 751(@250wpm)___ 626(@300wpm)
I’m slower to follow this time, and he snaps at me again.
Luckily, we don’t linger in the den.
He leads me through another door I hadn’t noticed when I broke in and flicks on the light before taking me down another set of stairs. Immediately, I notice it’s much cooler down here. I follow Khalil down the dark tunnel, and he turns on another light at the end.
There are shelves, but unlike the pantry, they’re mostly empty. There are a few jars with pickled carrots, peppers, beets, and squash and a basket of potatoes on the ground in the corner.
“At first, we only built one room,” Khalil says out of nowhere, and I frown in confusion until I remember my unanswered question. “For years, we had no more than five hundred square feet to share between the three of us. Five, if you count Zeke and Bane.”
“Who are Zeke and Bane?”
Khalil ignores me and picks up a whole carrot from the bunch, inspects it, and then sets it back down on one of the racks. “Getting materials up here without drawing too much attention was a real pain in the ass. The three of us used to sleep on cots, shit in a hole, and fumble around in the dark, trying not to invade each other’s space too much. It took two years before we realized that no one was looking for us or cared that we were up here, so we got comfortable. Expanded over the years. Modernized as much as we could. Made a life.”
“If you can call this living,” I mutter under my breath.
Khalil hears me anyway.
I brace myself for a fight, but he just tosses back, “Why do you think we’re keeping you?” as he passes me.
“You can’t just keep me, Khalil.” I stomp up the stairs behind him as we leave the root cellar and return to the den. “Search and rescue will find me. I bet they’re looking for me right now. Once they do, it’s over for you.”
“Uh-huh.” His dismissive agreement is all he says as we travel through the den. I glare at his back as I reluctantly follow him back up to the first floor. Why isn’t he more worried that I’ll escape or be found? His complete calm is having the opposite effect on me.
Khalil takes me out on the front porch, but no further since I’m not wearing shoes, and my only clothing is this flannel. I try not to fixate on the reminder that I’m not wearing anything underneath.
It’s cold as hell, and I start shivering immediately.
I don’t notice that I’m shuffling and huddling toward the closest heat source until I feel warm skin brushing against mine, and then I realize that source is Khalil. He doesn’t look too happy about my proximity, either. In fact, he’s even more tense, as if I’m the one holding him hostage.
Outside, it looked as if another ten feet of snow had fallen while I was out of it. The sky is clear now, and even though it’s day, I can see the moon—or at least the half that’s visible—so it must be later than I thought. I hear the sounds of nature all around us. The views from this high up should be stunning, but all I see is my prison.
Khalil points out a much larger cache of wooden logs a few feet away and another shed where he tells me they process and cure the meat from their kills. He then tells me Thorin does most of the hunting.
“What’s that?”
Khalil follows my finger to the four wooden boards no more than two feet high. It forms a square, but I can’t tell what it’s meant for with all the snow covering the ground.
“Garden bed,” Khalil answers with a displeased grunt. I’m wondering if he’s annoyed with me for asking when he adds, “I tried my hand at growing our own produce a few times, but I wasn’t blessed with a green thumb.”
Huh.
Apparently, my observation skills are shitty because I hadn’t noticed it when I first arrived.
I choose to blame my three days lost in the wilds.
Staring at the small abandoned garden, I ask, “If you don’t grow your own produce, how did you get those vegetables in the cellar?”
Khalil’s expression pinches when he realizes he’s shared too much once again.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, biting back a victorious smile while smugly bringing my vigilance skills up from a solid four to five and a quarter.
“Thorin is good at killing shit, and I’m good with my hands,” Khalil says tightly. “We sometimes trade his game and my woodwork for supplies we can’t grow or make on our own. It’s how we paid for a lot of what you see inside. The furniture, housewares, everything.”
“With who?”
Khalil’s eyes darkening is my only warning before he crowds me against the porch railing and cages me in with both hands gripping the wood on either side of my hips. He doesn’t touch me, though. Thank God.