Chapter 4 – A Chance of Escape

A clever rope is tied to my ankle as and the foot of the horse as I stand behind his steed, pulling my tattered dress over my head. Geralt is on the other side, our eyes meet from atop the horses back – the perfect height to where he won't see much, but he sees enough to know if try and run.

"Geralt," I call, throwing my dress over to him, "I have more questions." He muffles a curse and throws the dress to the ground. I wiggle into my clean, white dress I reserved in case I needed to impress a potential employer. Not perfect for this occasion, but at least it was not coated in dirt and stinking of potion.

"Firstly," I emerge from behind the horse, lacing my bodice, "Why did Nim hire you? He could very easily have brought me to the king himself." When Geralt notices the dress is still half open, he curses again and looks away. Inwardly, I praise myself. He is too nice to be a good kidnapper. Maybe the goal is to make him feel guilty.

"Nim didn't hire me," he says roughly. He slices at ankle rope. When I am finished lacing, he grabs my arm tightly and drags me back to the shore. I inhale sharply at the pain but do my best to comply. He has placed a blanket on the sand, fresh ropes laying beside it.

"On your stomach," he orders, but does not force me. He expects me to obey this time. I wrench my arm out of his grip.

"Please, Geralt," I lick my lips, "I won't run." This is a lie, but I pray he doesn't know that.

He doesn't hesitate. His hand goes the back of my neck and he pulls me closer to him. I gasp, forcing myself not to look into his eyes. With his other hand he points a short sword to my navel. I think he will threaten me, perhaps slice a little skin to draw blood.

"I do not want to hurt you," he says instead. I should be comforted by this notion, but it means he will he hurt me if he has to. And I don't want to know what he has in mind. I nod, then lower myself onto the blanket, my cheek pressed to the side. He is painfully slow at his work, every time his warm fingers brushes over my cold skin I tremble. When he ties my wrists it's not nearly as tight as before, but the skin there is already raw so it hurts even more. I whimper while he goes for my ankles, securing them to my wrists so I am unable to stand or even roll over.

"Any more questions?" he asks, which I think is meant to be a taunt of some sort. I struggle against the ropes a little, unable to find a comfortable position. Geralt walks to the stream and without warning, pulls his pants off. I try to roll over to look the other way, but find that I see nearly everything before I simply close my eyes. I don't think he cares that I have seen most of him, he takes nearly an hour to bathe.

I feel incredibly stupid, bound effectively and unable to do anything but struggle while he washes himself, unbothered. My neck aches now, the hem of my dress creeping up my thighs. I could talk to him more, but he doesn't seem to like when I inquire. I keep my ears open in case any travelers are making their way down the road – if I scream, they might hear me. And who will they believe, a demon-esque Witcher or a pale maidservant? I'm not sure. But I will still try.

Geralt finally emerges from the stream, I shut my eyes.

"We'll be on our way now," he rumbles, and I hear him slide his pants back on. His hair drips onto my neck as he frees my ankles. I groan at the stiffness in my knees when he pulls me to my feet. I realize he is shirtless, still.

"Stay here, by Roach. I will prepare the saddle." He walks back to shore, gathering his clothes, still barefoot on the sand. I cannot believe he has let me this far, legs free, while he is facing away. Perhaps he trusts me now that he's seen me bound like a hog. He humiliated me to humble me. Clever, really, but it didn't work.

Then I hear it. At first, it's merely a rumble in the ground. I react faster than I can think – and start running precisely when I see Geralt's head turn up.

"Help me!" I scream, taking off towards the road, the carriage approaching the distance. It's far, too far to see me now, but if I could just make it to the clearing. I don't stop screaming, I just keep saying whatever comes to my throat. A vicious panic arises in my body. I will not go back. I get so lost in my escape I forget that Geralt is three paces behind me the whole time, chasing faster than I can run.

Shit, shit, no. I can't go back. The carriage is swooping around the corner and I can see it in full view now, my legs are on fire. Just when I think I can see the face of the coach, I am pulled backwards into a crushing grip. I scream one last time, so shattering it seems to split the tree trunks. Then Geralt's arm is around my waist, his hand on my mouth. I want to cry now. I can barely fight back, my wrists still tied behind me. He drags me down under a stone's covering, facing away from the road.

He growls and puts his full weight on top of me, crushing my ribs. He is still dripping wet, his bare chest heaving with anger. A tear falls down my face, I can't seem to even breath now. My body is telling me to stop fighting, but the carriage is yards away now. I wrestle him, trying to cause some disturbance with my feet, scream through his hand, any movement that might make the coach suspicious.

"Don't fight me," he finally says, a whisper in my ear while he presses his dagger to my throat. I freeze, feeling the point being dragged down my collarbone, pushed into the crevice there. He's already drawn blood, I can feel the warmth trickling down my chest. I really don't want to die, so I stop. Our eyes are locked as we hear the carriage pass above us. His eyes have gone…black.

Our bodies pressed are together tightly, soaked, our hearts both beating loudly. His hips shift slightly. I whimper at the pressure and he growls again, more blood drips onto my breasts. Even when the carriage is far past us, he holds me down still.

Finally, it is no more. The carriage is gone. I failed. Geralt removes the sword, then rests his head on my chest, eyes shut. I dare not move, or even make a sound. He didn't kill me before, but he may now. The only outcome I imagined was the carriage stopping, then being saved and taken away from Geralt forever. His hand still lingers on my mouth, not gagging me but simply resting there now. I wonder how long we have been laying here.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears falling to the leaves. It can barely be heard under his hand. He uses his elbows on either side of me to prop himself up. His eyes are gold again, intrusive and fierce.

"Please," my throat is tight, "Don't make me go back." My breathing is shaky.

Geralt looks angry. His face is murderous. But for a moment, his body softens at my words.

"Hm," he grunts, thoughtfully. He is trying to figure out what to do with me. "Fuck."