This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Seravyn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Seravyn has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Content Warnings

CONTENT WARNING

This story contains:

• CNC / Consensual Non-Consent

• Chase and capture

• Rough sex

• Forced penetration

• Watersports / urination during sex

• Humiliation and degradation

• Hair pulling and restraint

• Outdoor sex

• Mask kink

• Rape

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

If any of these themes are triggering for you, please do not continue.

Little Runaway

chapter-seperator

“You run, I catch you. You get fucked. No matter how much you cry or how scared you look. Only the safeword stops it.”

●●●●

The rope is still warm from my skin when it hits the floor.

I don’t look at it. I look at the window.

He’s outside, shirtless, mask on, splitting logs like he has all the time in the world. The black fabric covers everything but his eyes. Those eyes never leave the wood. The axe rises and falls in a steady, heavy rhythm. Each impact travels through the cabin floorboards and into the soles of my bare feet.

Two days.

Two days of being kept in this isolated cabin. Two days of him watching me. This is the first time the knots have given enough. The first time I’ve actually made it to the door without him already in the room.

My wrists are raw. The skin under the rope burns when the air hits it. I ignore it. The back door doesn’t creak when I open it.

Fog swallows everything past a few meters. Thick, gray, clinging. The air is chilly enough that my skin tightens the second I step off the porch. Nipples tighten under the thin white cotton. The dress is short enough that the hem brushes the tops of my thighs. No shoes. He took those the first day and never gave them back. Damp earth and pine needles stick to the soft arches of my feet immediately. The cold climbs my calves.

I run.

The ground is cold and uneven. Roots catch at my toes. Sharp pine needles dig into the soft parts of my feet and stay there. Something hard scrapes the side of one foot and a small sound slips out of me. I don’t stop. The cabin disappears behind me in less than a minute, swallowed by fog. Trees close in. My breath turns sharp and white in front of my face. Every snap of a twig under my foot sounds too loud in the muffled quiet. My thighs brush together with every stride. The dress rides higher. Cold air slides between my legs.

I know he’s coming.

He always does.

I change direction twice, cutting left through a denser stand of pines, then right again when the undergrowth thins. My legs burn. My lungs burn. The dress is up around my hips now. Something sharp digs into the arch of my left foot ...