The walk to Killian Canavan's cabin in the woods was long and arduous and wearied little Katherine van der Poole nearly to unconsciousness. Her hands were bound neatly together; the tether was gripped carefully in Killian's massive steely fist. Katherine's dress was tatters, her body was aching, and her skin was bruised, bloodied, and sticky with sweat and grime from the forest. It had been the longest of days.
Katherine stumbled over a tree root and fell flat on her hands and knees; she flinched, expecting to be hit, as jerked her head up to look at Killian with the frightened eyes of a wounded doe. If she had looked up with a trace of arrogance or cunningness or even anger, Killian would have jerked her to her feet by the rope that bound her and probably slapped her around a bit for good measure. But the abject fear and the sad confusion of an abandoned child on her pretty face appealed to the thin whispers of kindness that rustled around the tendons and hatred in his heart. He reached down and lifted her easily to her feet. She took a single step before her silver eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted dead away.
Killian rolled his own eyes up at the sky. "This is what I get for showing mercy," he remarked with a trace of humor to no one in particular. He gathered up Katherine's little body and held her against his chest. Her head lolled innocently against his shoulder, her soft strawberry lips open in a delicate pout. His little doe. He sighed, finishing the march to his home in thoughtful silence.
Killian's cabin was all honey-colored wood, mismatched dishes, ropes, weapons, and an enormous bed outfitted with a plaid quilt he'd had for twenty years and sheets that could probably do with a good washing. In the attic there were boxes and books and a thin little cot that was usually brought out for guests—or captives as the case happened to be. He considered the staircase and then looked down at the little brownbird in his arms. She was too weak for the moment, too pitiful. He couldn't very well torture her for information—or enjoyment—in this state. Instead, he laid her down on his great bed and tugged off her filthy clothing. He lit a fire and his lamps, heated water over the hearth.
He tied each of Katherine's wrists and ankles to one of the bedposts, leaving her spread-eagled and helpless on that old familiar quilt. He grinned a little at the sight of her so lovely and vulnerable. In the soft golden lamplight, she looked more like an angel than ever.
With a cloth of disputable cleanliness, he washed the dirt and dried blood from her arms and legs, cleaned the dried cum from her thighs. He pulled thorns and splinters from the bottoms of her feet, watching her still face for signs of consciousness. He ran a hand over her taut, concave stomach and over her breasts, watching her nipples stiffen under his touch. Under his touch, Katherine shifted a little, her lips falling open. He could see her pearly teeth, her silky pink tongue, the back of her innocent little throat. Waiting a second to make sure she was truly still unconscious, he leaned down and took her plump bottom lip between his, as carefully as if she were made of glass.
Katherine startled awake, her eyes looking twilight-colored in the darkening room. "Oh!" she gasped out, squirming in her bonds.
Killian smirked down at her. "Hello there, little one."
Katherine looked down at herself, taking in both the state of her nakedness and the new cleanliness of her skin. "You... cared for me."
"We can't have you dying on us just yet now, can we?" Killian chuckled at the new horror that came across her pretty face. Tears sprang up in her eyes.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "My father has money; if you want a ransom, he'll pay, I know he will!"
"Sorry, love." Killian shook his head. "This is about revenge, not ransom."
"Oh." Katherine swallowed, trying and failing to contain her tears.
"I'm going to need to ask you a few questions about your father's business."
He saw the expression in her eyes change, shields coming down over them, and knew she knew exactly what information he wanted. "I can't give you that," she said firmly. "You must know that I can't."
"You'd better cooperate," Killian cautioned her. "Your cooperation is the only thing that'll let you survive all this; worse men than me will have their way with you if you don't let me help you. I can help you, Katherine."
Katherine snorted. "You can't fool me."
"I mean what I say," Killian vowed solemnly. "Don't get me wrong; I'll beat you bloody and fuck you until you can't stand or sit for a month. I'll do it every single day until I get what I want from you. But there are worse things. I don't plan on taking any of your limbs, for example." He ran a finger down the milky paleness of Katherine's trembling arm. "Personally, I prefer them attached."
"You're a monster!" Katherine spat. "You might as well kill me now, for I'll not tell you a damn thing."
Killian had to fight to hide a smile at her cursing; it was almost certainly the first time she'd uttered such a word, and the sweetness of her tone even when furious made the whole thing rather adorable. "You're no good to me dead, love," he said simply.
