Her mouth was dry. Her legs shook. She took a final second to steel herself then leapt forwards.
She took one step before her knees buckled and dropped her to the ground. Clare gasped then bit down on a scream as pain tore through her arm and her midsection. Her vision flashed white as the migraine stabbed through her head. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.
Something large appeared at her side. The man was speaking, but her ears felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and she couldn’t make out any words. She clutched her good arm over the injured one, begging the pain to stop and trying not to throw up.
One arm wrapped around her shoulders, then the other slipped under her knees. Everything lurched as the man lifted her off the floor. The headache worsened, and Clare pressed her lips together to keep her pained gasps inside. Then she was placed back down on something soft—probably the bed—and the presence at her side disappeared.
Slowly, the pain began to recede like a swell washing back into the ocean. Clare cracked her eyes open. The cream ceiling swam. Her breaths still came in sharp, staccato gasps, but each one felt less strained than the last.
A cold, damp cloth pressed against her forehead. That felt good. She let her eyes close. The stranger spoke to her, but she still couldn’t understand him. A moment later, she felt blankets being draped back across her body.
She tried to say, “Leave me alone,” but the words came out slurred. A hand pressed onto her shoulder and squeezed very lightly, then it was gone again.
Chapter Three
Wind whistled through gaps somewhere deeper in the house. As Clare moved back towards consciousness, the sound, like out-of-tune flutes playing a song without any melody, taunted her.
She tried to roll over, and a hundred little aches and pains returned. She returned to her back and opened her eyes.
The room was the same. Cream ceiling. Dark wood doors. Tall, latticed windows with drapes pulled back and gauzy curtains muting the light. The man was no longer standing by the windows, though. He sat next to her bed.
Clare flinched back. He reclined in a chair, one leg folded over the other, and a mug clasped in his long fingers.
“Don’t try to run again. You will only hurt yourself.”
Finally, she could see his face. He was slightly older than she was—midtwenties, maybe. His thick black hair was a little longer than was fashionable. His eyes were dark and deep set, and his eyebrows rested low. He’d shed his jacket and wore a green knit top.
Clare pulled the sheets higher so that they were under her chin. A hundred questions wanted to be let out. Who are you? What am I doing here? She swallowed them all. She didn’t know where she stood or how much danger she might be in. All she knew was that nothing about the situation was normal.
The man moved to place his mug on the bedside table and picked up a glass of water. “Drink. It will help.”
Clare didn’t want to remove her arm from the safety of the blanket, let alone move closer to the stranger, but she was desperately thirsty. The water sparkled in the glass. Her mouth and nose were dry enough to ache, and at that moment, the water looked like the most beautiful thing on the planet.
Cautiously, Clare extracted her hand from under the blankets and reached for the glass. She kept her attention focussed on the stranger’s expression. He looked impassive, as though there were nothing unusual about the day. He didn’t try to move. She took the glass, pulling it towards herself quickly enough to spill a few drops. Clare brought the water to her lips, but before drinking, she tried to smell it. He noticed. His eyebrows pulled slightly closer together, but he made no comment.
She managed a very shaky smile and tried a sip. It didn’t have any strange tastes, so she downed the whole glass. Her body silently rejoiced as she drank, and instantly, it begged for more.
The man held out his hand, and Clare carefully returned the glass to him. He placed it back onto the bedside table then picked up his own mug and settled back into the chair. He obviously didn’t intend to start a conversation.
Clare couldn’t stand the silence any longer. She licked her lips. “Who are you?”
“So you do speak.” A very small smile flitted over his lips, but it was gone in an instant. “My name is Dorran.”
She’d never heard of anyone with that name before. Mixed with the ostentatious decorations and abnormally large room, it left her with a sense of unreality, as though she’d tumbled through some portal into a fantasy world and couldn’t find the way back out again. “Where am I?”
“My family’s estate. Winterbourne Hall.”
She frowned. “Where?”
“In the Banksy Forest.”
She tried to edge a little farther away from him. “There aren’t any properties in that forest.”
“There is.” He took a sip of his drink. “It is well concealed and not widely known.”
Clare risked a glance behind her. Snow continued to swirl beyond the window. The room was warm, thanks to the fire, but outside looked bitterly cold. Even if she found her way out of the house, she didn’t think she could run far.
“How…” She swallowed and tried to rephrase her question. “When…”
He tilted his head to one side, his voice soft. “Your car had crashed. I found you. You were bleeding out, so I brought you back here.”
She closed her eyes. She remembered driving into the forest. But what happened after that? She strained, but even though scraps of memories teased the edges of her consciousness, they stayed blurred.
Dorran was watching her closely. The scrutiny made her feel self-conscious. She pulled the blankets a half inch higher. “I don’t remember crashing.”
“Sometimes traumatic events can erase the memories immediately preceding them.” His eyes flicked towards her arm. “You lost a lot of blood. But there are no broken bones. You were lucky in that regard.”
She didn’t feel lucky.
Dorran rose. He was moving slowly, but Clare still flinched as he walked around her bed. “I tried to call for an ambulance,” he said as he opened a massive wardrobe. “But the storm has brought down the phone lines, and the roads are impassable. We must stay here until the storm clears.”
Clare looked at the room’s double doors. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Just us.” He returned to her side and draped a dressing gown over the back of the chair he had been sitting in. “This is one of mine, but it is clean. Will you need help putting it on?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“Then I will bring you some food. You were asleep for two days. You will be hungry, even if you don’t feel it yet.”
Clare watched him cross to the door and let himself out. All of his motions seemed careful and precise, as though he considered every movement before he made it. Once the door clicked shut, she held her breath and listened. Footsteps gradually faded. They seemed to go on a long way, though. How big is this place?
Still holding the blankets around her throat, Clare grabbed for the dressing gown. It was thick and too large for her. She struggled into it as quickly as she could, jarring her arm in the process. She squeezed her eyes closed and hissed as she waited for the pain to fade.
He says I crashed. Did I? I’ve driven down the Banksy Forest road hundreds of times. I know it like the back of my hand.
She gingerly slipped her feet over the edge of the bed. The floor was carpeted, but it still felt cool, and her toes curled. I’ve never seen any sign of a property inside the forest. Around it, yes. Farmhouses and barns. But inside? He’s lying. Isn’t he?