on her neck, and her cheek flared with heat and pain. He had slapped her!
“You will call me whatever I tell you to,” he snarled. “You are mine now.”
“But … but …”
She sensed him lean in closer, and his scent wafted over her, sandalwood and musk. Whatever he said, he didn’t smell like a monster. It was the sort of fragrance that would turn her head if they were in a bar, searching for its owner.
“You will call me Monster. It is what I am. What I am, and what I am becoming more and more with every passing day.”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered.
“You’ll find out in time.”
His deep voice sent shivers running through her.
And with that, he backed away and left the room, leaving her only with her tears.
Six
Within ten minutes, the older man returned and removed her handcuffs and blindfold without saying a word.
“Please,” she begged him, hoping he might have a softer side buried deep down somewhere. “You have to help me. You have to get me out of here.”
He gave her a scornful look. “Don’t think for one moment I am the good guy in this situation.”
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think either of you are good.”
His head tilted to one side, as if assessing her. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
He turned and left the room, locking the door behind him. The book she’d thrown still lay abandoned on its side, and she picked it up and threw it at the door. It smacked against the wood and fell to the floor.
Lily gave a sob of fear and frustration.
Her cheek still smarted from where the other man had hit her. Relieved that her hands were no longer cuffed, she lifted her hand to her face and held it against the heated mark. He hadn’t needed to hit her. He had done it to make a point, to make her understand that the rules between respectable adults no longer applied here. At least she was no longer handcuffed and blindfolded.
With nothing else to do, she sank from the edge of the bed onto the floor and scooted over to grab the book. She checked the spine: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by the Irish author James Joyce. It was certainly more refined than the books she normally picked up, preferring psychological thrillers, but she’d always said she’d read the telephone book if that was all she had available. Why had they left her with reading material, she wondered? Why had the older man been so protective over the book?
The name her captor had told her to call him rang through her head. Monster. Was that supposed to be a joke? It certainly hadn’t felt like a joke. The tone of his voice, the way he’d said those words about himself, it was as if he’d completely believed them. She’d heard danger in his tone. One moment he could have been the dashing lothario at a European restaurant, the next he’d been the terrifying voice down the end of the telephone line saying he’d been watching you and your life was in danger.
Why had she been chosen? What made her so special that he’d gone to all this trouble to kidnap her from her workplace and have her travel for hours and hundreds of miles? He’d known her name. He knew exactly who she was.
And she knew nothing about him.
Except his name. A shiver, as though someone had walked over her grave, wracked through her. It was one detail she wished she didn’t know.
He must have been giving her a false name so she’d never know who he was. Perhaps she should take hope in that. In the same way Cigarette Hands had laughed at her because she’d seen his face, had been so cocky about the fact she’d never find help, this man had given her a false name and kept her blindfolded. Perhaps, she dared to hope, his plans also included letting her go once he’d gotten what he wanted.
Whatever the hell that was.
A patter of quick, light footsteps came from outside. Before she had time to react, the door opened and a tray was pushed through
“You will call me whatever I tell you to,” he snarled. “You are mine now.”
“But … but …”
She sensed him lean in closer, and his scent wafted over her, sandalwood and musk. Whatever he said, he didn’t smell like a monster. It was the sort of fragrance that would turn her head if they were in a bar, searching for its owner.
“You will call me Monster. It is what I am. What I am, and what I am becoming more and more with every passing day.”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered.
“You’ll find out in time.”
His deep voice sent shivers running through her.
And with that, he backed away and left the room, leaving her only with her tears.
Six
Within ten minutes, the older man returned and removed her handcuffs and blindfold without saying a word.
“Please,” she begged him, hoping he might have a softer side buried deep down somewhere. “You have to help me. You have to get me out of here.”
He gave her a scornful look. “Don’t think for one moment I am the good guy in this situation.”
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think either of you are good.”
His head tilted to one side, as if assessing her. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
He turned and left the room, locking the door behind him. The book she’d thrown still lay abandoned on its side, and she picked it up and threw it at the door. It smacked against the wood and fell to the floor.
Lily gave a sob of fear and frustration.
Her cheek still smarted from where the other man had hit her. Relieved that her hands were no longer cuffed, she lifted her hand to her face and held it against the heated mark. He hadn’t needed to hit her. He had done it to make a point, to make her understand that the rules between respectable adults no longer applied here. At least she was no longer handcuffed and blindfolded.
With nothing else to do, she sank from the edge of the bed onto the floor and scooted over to grab the book. She checked the spine: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by the Irish author James Joyce. It was certainly more refined than the books she normally picked up, preferring psychological thrillers, but she’d always said she’d read the telephone book if that was all she had available. Why had they left her with reading material, she wondered? Why had the older man been so protective over the book?
The name her captor had told her to call him rang through her head. Monster. Was that supposed to be a joke? It certainly hadn’t felt like a joke. The tone of his voice, the way he’d said those words about himself, it was as if he’d completely believed them. She’d heard danger in his tone. One moment he could have been the dashing lothario at a European restaurant, the next he’d been the terrifying voice down the end of the telephone line saying he’d been watching you and your life was in danger.
Why had she been chosen? What made her so special that he’d gone to all this trouble to kidnap her from her workplace and have her travel for hours and hundreds of miles? He’d known her name. He knew exactly who she was.
And she knew nothing about him.
Except his name. A shiver, as though someone had walked over her grave, wracked through her. It was one detail she wished she didn’t know.
He must have been giving her a false name so she’d never know who he was. Perhaps she should take hope in that. In the same way Cigarette Hands had laughed at her because she’d seen his face, had been so cocky about the fact she’d never find help, this man had given her a false name and kept her blindfolded. Perhaps, she dared to hope, his plans also included letting her go once he’d gotten what he wanted.
Whatever the hell that was.
A patter of quick, light footsteps came from outside. Before she had time to react, the door opened and a tray was pushed through
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