: Chapter 11

“That son of a bitch.”

I usually don’t swear this much. But this man, this asshole, just brings it out in me.

My mother would be appalled. Which is probably a good reason to keep it up. She’d also be appalled that I got myself into this situation. But that would be an incredibly unfair judgment.

With angry steps, I stomp to the door, and jerk at the handle, even though I know it won’t move. And it doesn’t.

“Fucker.” Okay, that felt good. “You fucker!” Shouting it feels even better.

My foot pulls back, like I’m going to kick the base of the door, but I stop myself. Breaking a toe would only make me all the more miserable.

“Fucker,” I grumble again, for good measure.

I still can’t believe he caught that stupid bust.

Accepting that the door isn’t going to open, I look down at what he’d left for me.

On the floor, is a fancy wood tray, like something you’d find at a cute bed and breakfast. Only instead of crackers, cheese, and a carafe of wine, it has an unopened box of Cherry Pop-Tarts, a King Size Snickers, a sealed bag of sweet and spicy beef jerky, and two bottles of water. Hardly the sort of fare I’d expect to find in a place like this. But maybe the big evil man prefers to eat like a teenage boy.

I’m tempted to stomp it all to crumbs but that would be foolish. I don’t know how long he’s planning to leave me in here, and other than tap water from the bathroom, this might be all the sustenance he gives me. And at least he was smart enough to bring me packaged food. Because hungry or not, there’s no way I’d so much as touch a handmade sandwich.

No, sir. Not today.

With a crouch, I lift the tray then set it on the bed.

The cap on the water bottle gives a satisfying snap when I twist it, so I bring it to my lips, and drink down half the bottle in one go.

I’ve done a lot of screaming and crying in the past hour––is that all it’s been?––and it’s left my eyes itchy and my throat dry.

Bottle in hand, I walk the perimeter of the room. There’s no guarantee that King, or someone else, won’t barge in again, but I have the feeling that I’ll be left alone the rest of the night.

Upon closer inspection, everything––the furniture, bedding, knickknacks––looks even more expensive than I first thought.

I almost smirk, maybe my mother wouldn’t be so disappointed in me after all. To her mind, snagging a rich husband is the pinnacle of success.

Husband.

My stomach clenches and I take another sip of water.

I don’t know how King sees this all going down. It’s not like I’ll willingly go with him to a church, or a courthouse, and say my vows, pretending like I’m not a freaking prisoner.

And if he wanted to kill me, he would’ve already done it. So, it’s hard to picture him using a marry me or die argument.

I don’t want to die.

If he does give me that ultimatum, I guess I’d go through with it. Marriage isn’t quite as bad as death. And I’ll just keep looking for ways to escape. He can’t keep me locked in a bedroom forever.

My cheeks puff out with my next exhale as exhaustion overwhelms me.

I eye the bed, feeling leery of using it.

But there’s no point in trying to make a temporary bed in the closet or bathtub or whatever. This isn’t one of my vigilante assassin books where they’re always on the run and trying to outsmart whoever might be after them. This is me already being well and truly held captive. King knows I’m here, hiding within the room won’t change that.

I press my lips together, still staring at the bed.

I bet this is his room.

I bet he’s brought lots of women here.

Hopefully of their free will.

And…I bet that mattress is comfortable as hell. No way a man like King would skimp on his own bed.

But just as I think about crawling under the fluffy comforter, I become aware of just how gross and grimy I feel.

It’s been a long day. Getting ready earlier, to meet up with Lee, feels like a whole different lifetime.

For him, I guess it was.

I grimace at my own dark thoughts. I’m gonna need to start going back to therapy after this.

I look down at myself.

Regardless of all the other stuff, I’ve been wearing a bra longer than anyone ever should, so that has to go. And these jean shorts are starting to rub in places I don’t want them to rub, so something soft to wear would be nice. And my once-cute shirt is sticking to me from the panic sweat I suffered during my kidnapping, which means it needs to be washed, if not burned. And my feet…if I think too hard about how sore my feet are in these little flats I wore because they were cute, not comfortable, I’ll start crying all over again.

My eyes move back and forth between the open bathroom door, the bed, and a door that must lead to the closet.

“Screw it.”

I tuck the water under my arm and hold my breath as I try the unopened door, pleased when it opens without effort.

The door swings inward, and just like in the bathroom, soft light emanates from the fixtures. Only in this case, the light is glowing from underneath the shelves.

The closet is huge and well organized, but not exactly full. Which isn’t to say that King doesn’t have a ton of clothes––because he does––he just doesn’t have enough to fill this giant walk-in closet.

The light switch looks way more complicated than a light switch should, but after a moment I figure out how to turn on the recessed lights overhead.

Ignoring the suits and fancy stuff, I head to the drawers lining the back wall.

The first drawer I randomly select is full of socks. Socks laid flat, in rows, not paired up.

“Weirdo,” I whisper, closing the drawer.

The next drawer is nearly as shocking. On their own, the boxers folded into perfect squares wouldn’t be that brow-raising, but the brightly colored silks were not what I was expecting.

Unable to help myself, I reach out and rub the material between my thumb and forefinger. They’re so soft and unexpected, I feel another pair.

But I definitely don’t wonder what King would look like wearing them.

And I don’t feel any sort of twisting low in my stomach.

Nope. Not at all. It’s way too soon for Stockholm syndrome. That’s just my body reminding me that I expelled everything I ate earlier.

I slam the drawer shut. I’m not wearing King’s underwear to bed.

The next drawer finally proves useful, when I find a selection of athletic pants. I know they’ll be way too long for me, but they’re better than wearing a stranger’s boxers.

When King was forcibly carrying me from Lee’s building, and my body was plastered to the front of his, it didn’t seem like he had much body fat. But he’s a big man with a big frame, so even though I might be heavy, I inwardly sneer at the memory of him calling me that, the elastic waist means they should stretch over my hips.

It takes another two drawers before I find t-shirts. And another drawer before I find black ones. Because I’m not wearing a white t-shirt while braless. Not here. Not for all the Pop-Tarts.

Going back to the first drawer, I grab out a pair of black tube socks, completing my head-to-toe black look.

Just as I start to slide the drawer closed, I pause, then use my free hand to jumble the socks all together.

If I had both hands, or patience, I’d tie them all into knots. But I have a feeling there will be time for that later.

Feeling slightly better, with my bundle in hand, I turn around, and spot a very large safe. It’s hidden behind the open door, so you don’t see it when you first walk in, but the shiny surface makes it hard to miss.

Since I just love to be disappointed, I go over and inspect the safe, slightly surprised that there isn’t a little square print reader on it. And then more surprised when I can’t find anything. No dial, no hinges, no nothing.

But zap me once, shame on you, zap me twice…

I keep my fingers away from the surface and exit the closet.