Sophie’s POV
I wake to a distant sound—rhythmic, steady. Thunk. Pause. Another thunk.
I move to the window, staying to the side. Morning light filters through the trees.
And there he is—Bellamy, shirtless, chopping wood.
I should look away. Should do literally anything other than stand here watching. But I don't. My eyes stay fixed on him as he swings the axe—broad shoulders, defined muscles moving under skin gleaming with sweat.
He sets up another log. Raises the axe, brings it down. The wood splits.
I don't want to admit it was hard to tear my eyes away from his body—from the way his muscles tensed with each swing, the raw strength in his arms, the lines of his torso—but I managed. Eventually.
I step back, my face hot. He kidnapped me, took me from my wedding, from my daughter, from my life.
No. Focus on what matters. He's outside. Distracted. This is my chance.
The perfect time to try to escape.
I'll get out, run wherever my eyes lead me. Through the woods, find the road, flag down a car. Someone will help.
Bellamy took my phone, of course, so I can't call for help. But I don't need technology. I just need to move.
I pull on the jeans and shirt he gave me, lace up the sneakers. Everything about this is wrong, but I can worry about that later. Right now—the sound of wood splitting outside tells me where he is.
I crack open the bedroom door. The hallway is empty. I move quickly through the cabin. The front door is visible from where Bellamy's working—not an option.
But there has to be another way out. The kitchen—there's a door past the sink.
I try the handle. Locked.
I move to the next room—a mudroom with boots and jackets. Another door. I reach for it…
"The doors are locked."
I freeze. Bellamy's voice behind me, closer than it should be. How did he get inside without me hearing?
"Even if you managed to escape," he continues, his voice maddeningly calm, "you wouldn't be able to make it in the woods on your own."
I turn around slowly, my heart pounding against my ribs. And immediately wish I hadn't.
He's standing in the doorway to the mudroom, still shirtless, still gleaming with sweat from the woodpile. A towel draped over one shoulder.
Close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the defined lines of muscle across his abdomen, a thin scar running along his left side that I've never noticed before.
Up close, he's even more…
No. Stop it.
I'm irritated by the realization that Bellamy looks even more attractive up close and shirtless.
The morning light catches on his skin, highlighting every contour. His dark hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead. Those blue eyes watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
This is not helpful. None of this is helpful.
"You were watching me," he says quietly. Not a question—a statement.
My face burns. "I was looking for a way out."
"You were standing at the bedroom window for five minutes."
"I was…" I stop. Because I don't have a good excuse and we both know it.
Bellamy steps closer. Not threatening, just… present. The smell of wood smoke and sweat and something else that's just him fills the small space between us.
"Sophie," he says, and there's something gentle in his voice that makes my chest tighten. "I know you want to leave, but running into the woods alone isn't the answer. It's miles to the nearest road, and the terrain is rough. You could get lost, hurt, or…"
"So what?" I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intend. "I'm supposed to just stay here? Accept this? Pretend everything is fine?"
"No. I don't expect that." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that's almost vulnerable. "But maybe we could… I don't know. Start over? In a way."
I stare at him. "Start over?"
"Let me take you on a walk through the woods," he offers. "Just around the property. I'll show you some beautiful sights. There's a stream about ten minutes from here, and the way the light comes through the trees in the morning…"
He stops, seeming to realize how he sounds. "I just thought it might be better than being locked in that bedroom."
A walk through the woods. With the man who kidnapped me.
The man who's standing in front of me looking earnest and hopeful and absurdly attractive, like this is a normal situation and we're normal people and any of this makes sense.
Something inside me snaps.
"You know what?"
I say, my voice tight with all the emotions I've been holding back for three days.
"You kidnapped me. On my wedding day. You took me from my daughter, from Adrian, from my entire life. You've locked me in this cabin in the middle of nowhere and now you want to take me on a nature walk? Like we're on some kind of fucked-up camping trip?"
"Sophie…"
"No." I hold up a hand. "You don't get to 'Sophie' me. You don't get to stand there looking like…" I gesture vaguely at his shirtless torso and immediately regret it. "looking like that and offer to show me beautiful sights and expect me to just go along with it."
"I'm trying to make this easier."
"Letting me go would be easier! This—will never be easy." My voice cracks. "You made sure of that when you drove away from that church with me in your car."
Bellamy's expression shifts—something that looks almost like pain crossing his face. "I know I hurt you, I know this isn't what you wanted. But Sophie, if you'd just listen…"
"Listen to what? To your reasons? Your justifications? Nothing you say will make this okay. Nothing you do will make me forget what you've done."
We stand there in the mudroom, close enough to touch, the air thick with tension and unspoken things. His blue eyes search mine, looking for something I refuse to give him.
"I understand," he says finally, quietly. "I do. But the offer stands. If you change your mind about that walk."
The gentle understanding in his voice, the patient acceptance of my anger—it somehow makes everything worse. Because it would be easier if he was cruel. If he was the villain I need him to be.
But he's not. He's standing here being considerate and careful and looking at me like I'm something precious he's afraid of breaking.
And I can't handle it.
"Fuck off, Bellamy," I say, the words coming out more polite than furious, which somehow makes them more effective.
I push past him, have to brush against his bare shoulder to get through the doorway, and practically run back to the bedroom. I slam the door behind me and lock it from the inside.
I sink onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes.