A month passed as you plotted your grand escape. You would take a backpack of supplies: food for a few days (though you had to eat sparingly), water, and a weapon, the latter of which he had ample of.

A 20 gauge shotgun and a .17 HMR for hunting small game, a CA-15 and a Ruger American for bigger prizes. A handgun and two knives for backup. He always takes one rifle, one handgun, and two out of four knives; leaves the rest behind.

You never asked to know any of this information. He forced you to listen. Once a week, he made you watch as he cleaned his arsenal after a hunt.

Disassemble the weapon. Brush out the frame. Lubricate. Clean the barrel. Put it back together.

It was simple but time-consuming.

Over the weeks, you noticed that he deliberately took his time, with you sitting across him quietly. You never understood why. You refused to acknowledge him out of defiance; didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he piqued your curiosity. He seldom spoke. Only said something as he switched guns.

"20 gauge. I use it upland, for birds."

Fifteen minutes passed. You said nothing.

"Morakniv 4 inch. Field dressing."

You frowned, staring at the logs burning in the fireplace. He went back to work.

If only you could notice how thin his patience was wearing.

Knowing this ritualistic habit of his, you were too scared to pick out a gun. Not only did you not know how to use one, you also know that he would notice immediately. You settled for one of his knives; the one that he never takes with him. You waited for a rainy day like this one so you could cover your tracks better: no obvious footprints, no visibility, nor the sound of footsteps. Every sharp breath, every shudder, every shaky step forward; all of it blended into the forest.

The rain is a double-edged sword, unfortunately. You don't notice the huntsman lingering close by. He draws large, lazy strides forward. Watches as you spare a glance at your tombstone, taking a moment to catch your breath before you took off again.

That's it. He'd given you enough chances to turn back. He won't let you go any further.

A single shot of his handgun into the air makes you freeze.

"On your fucking knees. Now."

You hated when he talked to you. Always curt, authoritative and imperative. Scared and full of adrenaline, you bolt in a desperate act of rebellion. Unwise.

"Help! He's kidnapped me, anybody, ple-!" He's on you in a second, tackling you to the ground with your face caked in wet dirt, tying both hands behind your back.

Can't breathe.

You wriggle your wrists as much as you can, claw at whatever you can reach. Yet, the hunter stops at nothing. He pulls you up by the hair and you breathe in, choking on the rain. Your relief is short-lived as he turns you around to face him.

"Had your fun?"

The weight of his gaze forces you to stare back. The way your eyes fill with desperation and fear. The way you shudder under the rain. The way your wet clothes cling to every curve of your body. He never wants this to end.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, did that even occur to you? Of course nobody's going to hear you. Stop screaming, fuck!" He sounds manic. You have never seen him so erratic. You try to quiet your inconsolable sobs as his hands roam your body.

"Say you love me."

"I-I love you." Insincere, but it'll do.

He caresses every tender muscle; chest, waist, hips, thighs. Rough and impatient, eyes never leaving yours. Like he's trying to ground himself. Remind himself what you are to him. Maintain control.

His hands stop at your ankles. They're uncharacteristically gentle as he folds your legs over your torso and puts your feet up on his shoulder. Your shoes are undone, slowly taken off along with your socks.

"You're helpless and foolish." A kiss to your right heel. "Wouldn't last a day out here without me." Calloused fingers brush along the arc of your left one.

"I'll show you that you need me. Sounds good, yeah? That'll teach you to be fucking grateful." He massages the flesh, then rotates your ankle clockwise. Your breathing becomes frantic.

"Please, Cain! Please don't do this, I promise I won't try this again!" You screech.

Mercy eludes him. In his eyes, there isn't a semblance of guilt nor hesitation for what he's about to do. He sighs.

"I know just how to deal with stubborn things like you. Stay put or you'll make it worse."

You close your eyes. The rain is getting colder, but his touch is warm against your skin. You brace yourself. The forest is quiet, save for the rain. A sickening crack echoes through it.