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Captive.
Ophelia Martin woke the following morning only to barely slip on her shoes, heading out the front door faster than a blink of the eye.
Her body had been entangled with Rafe's, though his deep snores and slightly ajar mouth gave Ophelia the only sign she needed before adjusting the boy's arm, so that it was now laying in the warmth of the spot she had once been in.
One minute, her body was craving Rafe. His touch, his breath, his protective ways. The next, she wanted to be as far away as possible. She hadn't been sure why. Ophelia knew Rafe would never hurt her - though the underlying pain and guilt of a now dead Sheriff Peterkin hung over her conscious, reminding her daily of what her Rafe was capable of.
She hadn't been sure of where she was going to go. Instead, she didn't have a plan, she simply just went.
Ophelia had been walking for so long that she ended up on The Cut - and the longing stares of amusement and desperation hadn't gone unnoticed. Thankfully, Ophelia managed to find a pair of shorts and tank top somewhere in Rafe's drawers, swapping out for her stained and distressed pair from the night before.
Blood had still been glued to her leg, tiny shards of glass surely somewhere in between the mess from kicking out the truck's window.
Ophelia had bent down to adjust her shoe, and after all, it all seemed to happen before she could process what had been going on. One minute, she slowly made way kicking at the rocks on the side of the road. Next, a strong hold grabbed onto Ophelia's arm, tugging her with them.
She screamed.
Rafe had always told her whenever she felt threatened, or afraid, to scream as loud as she could. Although this time, he wouldn't be there to save her.
A stained and slightly damp blindfold hugged over her eyes, unable to asses the current situation as she was thrown into a vehicle, hearing the loud clatter of the door shut swiftly behind her, and then, sheer panic.
Her heart was pumping viciously, sweat beading down her forehead as her bottom lip trembled. Instantly, in a fight or flight instinct, she swung and thrashed her arms around, hearing the faint sound of a groan, her hand coming in contact with what seemed to be a broad chest.
"What the hell?" A voice mumbled lowly. "What were you thinking?" Spoke another. A girl, this time. "Honestly, dude. This is a federal offensive we're talking here." A third voice growled lowly. "You know, kidnapping? It's illegal."
