Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

15.

Less than two days and you'll be his.

Where once it filled you with dread, now it fills you with a confusing mix of feelings, a mix you can't hope to untangle: excitement, anticipation, horror, fear, curiosity ... even hope.

Hope that this might actually work. Hope that you might get home. Hope that all this drama will turn out to be a distant memory.

Hope that you might get to see him every day.

You can't stop watching him. You try not to show it, trying your best to watch from a distance or from the corner of your eye, but he knows, and he knows you know he knows. The thought makes you laugh.

You don't stay at the shelter. There's nothing to do and he seems eager to get away. After he's marked the perimeter of his home, he takes your hand and leads you into the surrounding terrain, being careful to choose routes that are soft against your sore feet.

Most are routes he's clearly taken many times before; the ground is heavily trodden dirt, with the surrounding bushes, trees and long grasses pushed back on either side. And you realise he must have lived here for quite some time.

The things you see astonish you: the animals, the plant life, the scenery. There are caves and cliffs and rivers. Animals call and shriek and squeal at each other. There are bright flowers and enormous trees and water so clear you can see the fish swimming at the sandy bottom. There is a sequence of caves that are built of rocks so big they make you feel like a bug.

You hadn't really noticed any of it before. Not when you were running. Not during your escape. How could you? When you learn about the outside world in the village, all you know is danger and risks and mystery. Not here. Not now. Not in the safety of his presence.

He speaks to you—or tries to, usually grunting and pointing. But sometimes he says words; words you do know and words you don't.

At one point he releases your hand to crouch beside a bush. You look over his shoulder as he plucks a flower. It's pink with yellow edging—and big. It's as big as your palm.

'Pretty,' he says.

'Yes.'

He points at you. 'Pretty.' He stands and turns to you, tucking it behind your ear. He studies you a moment, then begins stroking the length of your nose with his forefinger. 'Beau-ti-ful.'

Biting your lip, you touch the flower.

He takes your chin. Your eyes meet. And there he starts stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. His gaze seems to pin you to the spot and you start to quiver. His hands fall to the sides of your neck as he steps in close, so close you can feel his breath against your ear. You're so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. You've never seen those before.

He looks serious. His whole demeanour is serious. As though he's about to say something he needs you to understand. 'Protect. Care. Love.'

Your heart flips in your chest. 'Love?'

'Love,' he nods with a grunt. 'Mine.'

Your chest swells. You grab onto his hands. 'No abandon?'

He frowns. His forehead crinkles up.

'No leave?'

His frown deepens. You bite your lip again. Does he understand? Or is he refusing to answer?

He brushes his thumb over a tear trembling on your eyelid, then leans in to kiss you. And for a long time you both just stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, lips pressed together. It's so nice now, so different to that first kiss. It's not disgusting at all. When he's done, he presses his forehead to yours, smiling. You give a trembling smile back.

He takes your hand and you continue with your little adventure.

He keeps you close, holding your hand firmly. You stop in places to drink from the crystal-clear water and eat from branches and bushes and under rocks and rotting wood. There are berries and seeds, and mushrooms that make you nervous—the wrong kind can kill you—until he shows you there's nothing to fear.

Not when he's by your side, guiding you and helping you.

He kisses you sometimes, the way he did at the bush and back at the shelter, and you kiss him back. He keeps touching you: smoothing his hand down your back, grabbing your hip, holding your hand. A few times he carries you over the more difficult terrain or the more rugged routes that would have stabbed at your feet.

By the time you return to the shelter, the sun has dropped low to the horizon and he's carrying you on his back, your feet aching, your body sore, your mind tired. You've never walked so far in all your life. Strangely, he hardly seems tired at all. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you gaze at the sunset over his shoulder. It's never seemed so beautiful: the way it burns across the forest, as though the trees are on fire.

He shifts you into a more comfortable position, his hands gripping your backside. His big feet thud through the sharp and prickly forest floor. Turning away from the sunset, you press your face into the back of his neck and kiss him there. He gives an affectionate grunt and shifts you again.

Finally, he stops and releases you, easing you to the ground. The shelter is just as you left it. The deer is intact—no bears today. His marking works. You touch your belly where he marked you. It seems he's done a good job on you too, of making you his. The thought makes you giddy. A sharp, hot sensation stabs through your pelvis. And when he turns to look at you and you gaze back into his soft, hazel eyes, you come to a sudden realisation—you don't want to go back.

You don't want to go back home. You don't want to go back to Annie, to your mother or the perfectly decent life that you've built for yourself.

It fills you with astonishment. It fills you with dread. You don't have a chance to process it before he takes your hand and leads you to the edge of the summit. He sits and you sit beside him. The forest stretches out before you like an ocean of green, except for the blazing light which tinges it red.

A burning ocean.

Little wonder he's lived here a long time—with a view like this, along with the solitude and peace.

You rest your hand on his thigh. He encircles his arm around your shoulders. You lean your head against him with a sigh.