The General's Daughter by Heather Knight

Author:Heather Knight [Knight, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C
Published: 2016-06-13T23:00:00+00:00

I wake up twice that night, once to find him fucking my cunt, and the next time he’s sliding his dick back and forth between my breasts. He comes all over my face and chest, then rolls over and goes back to sleep.

“Get up.”

Why is he being such a dick? Talon yanks his undershirt over his head. I sit up, wincing at the tenderness between my legs. My chest is sticky with his cum, and I don’t know how to get rid of it other than to rub snow over myself until I’m slick and cold.

He watches as I pull on my pants, then the rest of my clothes. His eyes are hungry, and I think, Please. No. Not again. How could he possibly want it again?

He’s making me nervous with that silence of his.

“Any idea how long we slept?” I feel like an idiot. I doubt he’s slept much at all. Me either, for that matter, what with that libido of his.

He shrugs. “Getting light out. Let’s get moving.”

I tighten my belt one more time and pray that it doesn’t come loose. I look up and find him studying me with an oddly sad expression on his face.

I do not understand.

He kicks down the shelter and buries the debris. There’s a ton of ice on top of the snow, so it takes him a bit to break it up and then make it look natural again. I’d help him if I could, but I have no idea how.

He spots me watching him, and he purses his lips. He gives the pile one last kick. “Let’s go.”

I nod and stuff my hands in my pockets.

He turns away from me and starts out. Unlike yesterday, there is no hand-holding. Last night he held my entire body. Maybe holding my hand was his idea of foreplay.

Determined not to show him how insulted I feel—and truthfully, how hurt—I follow behind him. The crunch of our footsteps is the only sound until the wind begins to pick up. It slices through the tender skin of my cheeks, and I try to keep my hair tucked down into my coat as a sort of shield. It doesn’t do much.

I have no idea how he knows where to go, but he seems to. We trudge onward, hour after hour, and my hands are so cold I’m afraid they’ll develop frostbite. I work my arms out of the sleeves and into the chest portion of the coat, then stuff my hands in my pits. Gross.

But effective.

Why is he so angry? He wasn’t this way back at the trailer. He never pretended to like me, but this is new.

I swallow, trying to think of a way to make it better. “I know I’m a burden to you.”

He half laughs. “You don’t know jack.”

“What I’m saying is, if you want to go back to your”—I hesitate, not knowing what to call it—“unit, you know, that’s fine.”

He eyes me like I’ve said something seriously stupid. Like he can’t even find words.

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