His to Take by Shayla Black

“Any of these look familiar?”
    When he shoved the first picture under her gaze, she looked at the little white house,
     all alone in a big pasture, and a jolt of shock sizzled through her. It was the house
     in her nightmares. It wasn’t dusted with snow in this photo, as it was in her dream.
     But the same slightly dingy façade. Same white door with the brass knob. Same two
     windows on either side of the door. Same little detached garage behind the house and
     a bit to the left.
    Bailey felt the blood drain from her face.
    “You see that in your dream?”
    “I-I . . .” How was that possible? “Maybe it’s a coincidence or I’m psychic or I saw
     it on the news. I don’t remember a murder. I would have recalled something that horrifying.”
    “Maybe not. If you’re the girl who lived there and survived the massacre—and I think
     you are—you were barely five when it happened. You may have blocked it out. It’s not
     uncommon for the human mind to ‘forget’ things that are too traumatic to process.”
    She heard what he was saying, and in his shoes she’d probably think that she was the
     missing girl, too. But it just didn’t compute. She had a good memory. How could she
     possibly have let a quadruple homicide slip her mind? Her parents had been insistent
     that the dreams were simply products of her imagination and that she’d never been
     in danger. Even her psychologist had comforted her with the idea that her nightmares
     were probably nothing more than a representation of her fears. Which made sense to
     her. Every time she had the dream, she woke in a terrified shudder and often stayed
     up for hours. She even had a collection of comedies queued up on Netflix to help her
     forget.
    “I grant you the coincidences are really weird, but me being that girl . . . it doesn’t
     add up.”

    Because it scares you
.
    “Of course it does,” Bailey answered automatically.
    Then she gasped. What the hell had just happened? He hadn’t spoken in English. In
     fact, she didn’t remember ever having heard that language. Yet . . . she knew exactly
     what he’d said.
    “Because you know I’m right. And you understand Russian.” His smile turned savage.
    “Lucky guess.” She felt herself paling, struggling to comprehend.
    “Bullshit. You’re the woman I’ve been looking for. Do you want to know your real name?”
    This could
not
be happening. “Bailey Benson. I have no idea how you figured out what was in my dreams.
     I can’t imagine why you chose me to taunt or mess with or whatever. But I am not going
     to believe the mad ravings of some guy who—call it what you want—
drugged
me, dragged me from my bed, and tied me to his. And now you’re telling me that the
     parents who gave birth to me aren’t my parents at all and that I survived a massacre.
     No.”
    “Why would I lie? Why would I risk going to fucking prison to save you if I didn’t
     absolutely believe what I’m saying?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know
you
. I don’t understand any of this. I need to get out of here.”
    “Do you remember the picture on my phone? You want to look like that?” he challenged,
     pulling his mobile from his pocket. “If you don’t remember how grisly it was, I can
     show you again.”
    No. God, no.
Bailey shut her eyes. “I don’t need to see it.”
    “Maybe you do if you’re going to try to bury your head in the sand and pretend that
     I’m some random loon.”
    He had to be. She didn’t have a better explanation, but abducting a woman from her
     bed proved that he couldn’t be dipping both oars, right? Believing she was some other
     woman who knew Russian and had totally different parents until they were butchered
     when she was five . . . Hell no.
    He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed again. When he lifted a hand to her, Bailey
     flinched, tried to shrink back, but he only pushed the hair from her face and cupped
     her cheek.
    “Don’t touch me,” she spit