Chapter 7

Rosalind

The world comes back in stages, lurching out of blackness into light and pain and nausea and horrible nightmares. Hot, bone melting kisses. Blood.

There’s something else, something terrible, and it bites at me, but darkness takes me before I can fully understand what happened.

I don’t know how long I’m out, but this time, when I jolt out of oblivion, I’m back. A grogginess swamps me and my head aches. Whatever is underneath me is soft and comforting, cool to the touch, so not a floor… A bed? Is it mine? I can’t remember.

My eyes flutter open, and I’m confronted by more darkness. It’s not the same complete darkness that greeted me behind my eyelids. This kind is cut by sunlight leaking in from the room’s drawn curtains.

So, it’s day.

The more I look about, the more confused I am. I’m in a king size bed with a high wooden back and fresh white sheets, much fancier than my bedroom and classic, like this place was ripped from the page of a Jane Austen novel. On the ceiling is a chandelier dripping in crystals, but besides that, the furniture and décor are sparse—not even a reading lamp. It makes the room look grander but more colder at the same time.

It’s a stranger’s place.

Where the hell I am?

Fear grips me, making my stomach lurch. The memories start to float to the surface of my groggy mind, leaving me shaky and sickly.

Oh, God…

I run my hand over myself to find I’m not wearing my red dress. Instead, I’m in a silky, thin little number with spaghetti straps, some kind of nightgown or negligee. No bra, either. Was I wearing one before? I can’t seem to remember.

What about the pageant?

As I reach for more memories, nightmares twist in my head. Panic bubbles up and my head pounds, but I fight the urge to freak out. If I’m not at the pageant, something happened. Something bad. There’s a hole in my memory where evil is lurking and coiling.

With a deep breath, I count slowly until the throb in my head starts to recede along with the building panic. When I was a kid, mom would sometimes fly into action out of nowhere. We’d be sitting there, watching TV or having dinner, and she’d suddenly freeze, then grab me and make me hide with her, be really quiet. Make yourself smaller and quieter than a mouse, she said.

At first, it used to scare me. There were noises, shouts and voices I didn’t understand because of the way the blood roared in my head, and I’d grip my plush dog toy to me, burying my face in his worn patches of fur.

Back then, in the early days, she would whisper, “let’s play a game.”

I liked games. I’d nod, and when she signaled, we’d move, fast and silent and low. Sometimes, we’d head straight out the door and into the afternoon or night. Other times, we’d grab bags she stashed in secret hiding places. A few times, we’d stay, still and unmoving, for what felt like forever, until Uncle Max found us.

Uncle Max always found us.

My heart hurts and tears sting my eyes, making the back of my throat burn. Something monumental looms up over me, but I shut it down. I shut everything down.

No emotion. No sadness. No fear. No anger. No panic. Mom taught me that: just listen and wait until it was the right time.

In the end, the games stopped being scary, the hiding stopped inviting monsters hidden at every corner in my mind. The games just became games, fewer and fewer the older I grew. And then…

Mom died.

I breathe in again as I listen. No sounds infiltrate the room, and it’s cool in here. It’s perfect, actually, especially when my skin feels sticky and hot.

Carefully, I stand and make my way across the room. As my eyes grow more accustomed to the lack of light, I head for one of the windows and pull back the dark curtain. I see trees, lots of trees and grassy hills.

My heart slams against my ribs. I’m definitely not in the city anymore. Then a notice a little box on the window and the red blinking light flashing inside it. An alarm?

Is this some sort of fucked up prison?

Uncle Max—

My throat tightens, and my brain yanks that piece of information away before I can snatch it. It sits at the edges, but I can’t get a good hold on it. I’m not sure I want to.

Sweeping my eyes over the lavish room again, I shuffle my bare feet to one of the doors. Opening it, I find a walk-in closet big enough to be a twocar garage but completely bare.

Holy shit. I’m not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure.

I fling open another one that’s already slightly ajar and stumble into a massive bathroom decked out in white and gray marble, a jacuzzi tub and doorless shower dominating the space. My mouth hangs open in shock; it’s like I’ve fallen into a celebrity’s mansion, or maybe a prince’s abandoned castle. I never knew a single bedroom could have so many amenities.

I explore few more doors, which end up being even more closets, save for the last one. A bright light shines from underneath it—a way out—but as I reach for the handle, a shadow appears at the bottom. A key scrapes and a lock clicks.

I jump back just as the door swings open, and my breath tangles in my lungs.

The person standing in the doorway is tall and imposing, a black shape among the hallway’s harsh lights. The scent of something, delicious, salty, meaty, greasy, wafts in at the same time and my stomach turns, the nausea returning.

Suddenly, the room flares into illumination as he reaches out and flips a switch. All the blood rushes to my toes, and I fear I may faint at his feet.

He’s dangerously good looking, but I don’t know him. He’s familiar though, and my mouth burns with a memory I can’t quite place. He’s dressed in a pin-striped suit, tight enough to show off his well-defined torso underneath while accentuating his wide shoulders in the best kind of way. He has the kind of physique women drool over, and boy, am I drooling.

His dark amber gaze meets mine. “Sit.” The command covers me in goosebumps, and I stumble backwards, my knees hitting the bed and causing me to half-fall, half-sit.

Suddenly, everything my mind has been suppressing floods back.

His mouth on mine. The feel of his tongue.

The power. The possessiveness.

Every memory from the vacuum in my head, all those nightmares, rush in and fill the vacant holes, drowning me. All of them.

He killed…

Not wanting to believe it, I shake my head. I pinch my eyes shut, but I see the standoff again behind my eyelids. I see Uncle Max staring at us, gun pointed, then the explosion of blood and flesh behind him. I see him drop, lifeless, gone in a second. The last piece of family I had…

“You killed him,” I whisper, my words trembling as much as I do. “My Uncle Max. You shot him.”

I don’t know what I feel as I stare at him. Fury. Terror. Confusion. Absolute dread. Maybe it’s a combination of everything. All I know for sure is that Uncle Max is dead, my mom is gone, and I’m alone in this world because of this psychopath.

“He wasn’t your fucking uncle, Rose. He was just someone assigned to you by the law, an undercover cop meant to keep an eye on you and your mother. Now she’s gone and I have you, so he was obviously shit at his job.”

I blink. An undercover cop? Uncle Max? Mom always said he was a best friend she grew up with, one she considered family.

“You’re lying.”

Shaking his head, he reaches into his pocket, pulling something out and flinging it at me.

A badge.

I pick it up with shaking hands, turning it, reading all the information inscribed. Marcus Lyonne. US Marshall.

I can’t believe it. All these years… Why would Mom lie to me? Why did we need protecting?

“You were a job, little Rose.”

My head tilts in his direction, all this information struggling to sink in. I can’t trust this man—this murderer, but his blood splattered badge in my hands says there’s so much I don’t know about my life, and he may be able to offer me answers.

While I sputter in my head, he joins me on the bed. His large, warm hand covers mine and slides the badge away, only to replace it with a paper sack that smells so good and makes my stomach clench with hunger. It’s a fleeting, careless touch, but I feel it. Everywhere.

His closeness sends heat skittering across my skin. “I…”

“Yes, Rose?”

I fist the bag in my lap. “That’s not my name, you know. I’m Rosalind.” “Not anymore.”

I turn my gaze up to him, and those eyes are pools of sin, wickedness, and passion. There’s something else there, too, something biting into me, and his eyes harden as a slow smile blooms across his face.

This guy is out of his mind.

More fuzzy pieces of my memory slowly come back to me: him holding a gun to my temple, whispering about me being his now. His Rose.

I hate it.

“You shot him and kidnapped me,” I accuse stiffly.

“I did do that, yeah.” He hooks a stray loose curl behind my ear, his fingers soft as they brush across my cheek. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat.”

I grit my teeth, controlling the urge to glare at him. He kissed me and then said disgusting things that turned me on and inside out. I squeeze my eyes shut, the feel of his mouth on mine peeling through my mind, his tongue, the bite of him against my throat as he licked and kissed and sucked on my skin. I remember the electric pleasure when he touched me, his fingers on my clit over my panties.

I remember everything.

Him grabbing me.

Laughing.

Pulling that trigger.

My stomach heaves.

“You’re a monster.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

His nonchalance and coldness grates on my nerves, but I know I need to walk a fine line if I want any chance of escaping alive. He’s capable of unspeakable things, and like it or not, I’m at his mercy. I need to be smart about this if I don’t want to be carried out in a body bag.

Another thought pops into my mind—a name. Niko. There was another man with him; I remember him calling him Niko. Wilder… Uncle Max had called him Wilder.

“Wilder?” I ask carefully. “Is that your name? Niko Wilder?”

His entire body stiffens, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. I guess that’s a detail he was hoping I wouldn’t recall.

His gaze hardens but he doesn’t look away. “Don’t call me that.”

“But—”

“It’s Nikolai,” he growls. He changed my name so easily, yet he’s touchy about his own?

Fuck. Him.

After a long bout of tense silence, he nudges the paper bag in my arms.

“Eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

He’s trying to control me, I know. Food is the last thing on my mind right now, but my stomach grumbles. So, with nervous fingers, I open the sack. Inside is a burger and a box of fries. As I pick up a salty fry, I feel Nikolai’s eyes on me, watching me as I bite down. His gaze sends a tingle down my spine, but I focus on the food and keeping it down.

He must have gotten the burger from a higher-end joint—there’s no fast-food logo on the front, and I don’t instantly hate myself after eating it. If I could taste anything other than fear, guilt, and gut-wrenching sadness, it would be delicious.

He stands once I’m done, taking me by surprise, walking to the stillopen door. He bends to collect something—a cup with a straw—and hands it to me. “Coke.”

I take it and as I do, our fingers touch on the cold, damp vessel. Our gazes meet and his turns into melting desire. Without warning, my memory of those kisses slam into me, the pleasure and heat, the way everything in me disintegrated into just pure want.

My breath hitches and I force myself to look away. There’s something terribly, horribly wrong with me.

I want his mouth again.

I want to see if he tastes like I remember, cigarettes and jasmine and earth. It’s a strange combination, and I’m not even sure he smokes. I’ve kissed a smoker; some edgy boy who thought he was a rebel. This is different, like unsmoked tobacco with all the things that make it addictive.

My body doesn’t care who or what he is. He might be the devil himself; actually, he probably is the devil. He killed someone in cold blood right in front of me, threatened to cut out my tongue and kill Genius.

None of that matters right now, not when I’m slammed in the face with a want that pulls me in, and the overwhelming desire to taste him again. I want to take my time, delve in. Lose myself.

As if sensing my thoughts, his hand grabs mine suddenly and eases the cup from it. “Any more of that squeezing and you’re going to get soda all over everything. While I admit I’d love to see you all wet, sugar syrup is not my favorite.”

His words light a fire in me, and I clench my thighs together. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed, unfortunately, and he flashes me a tightlipped smile that’s full of secrets.

Shit. I need to get out of here.

I push the food away, and at the same time, he dumps the bag and the drink on the table next to the bed and clamps his hand down on my wrist.

“Let me go.”

“Never.”

Staring at his fingers wrapped tightly around my arm, my heartbeat turns into a gallop and my stomach twirls with excitement. I try and pull myself free, but he’s too strong, squeezing hard enough to make pain radiate down my elbow, and I yelp.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re mine now. You’re mine to play with whenever I want. Mine to destroy.”

A pulsing throb beats between my legs. Maybe I’m sick in the head for being attracted to a cold-blooded monster. I must be. I should be running, screaming. I should be fighting him, not sitting here and wanting… wanting… Him.

“What do you want me with me?” I’m sneering now, desperately fighting the attraction coursing through my body.

Leaning closer to me, his mouth hovers over mine, so close his breath fans across my lips. I freeze.

Oh, do I want that mouth. Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.

I raise my chin, unable to stop myself, seeking his heat, his taste.

And he knows it. His fingers whisper along my throat, my ear, my jawline. “Oh, my little Rose. My sweet, delicious Rose, with all that untried

passion. Because you are untried, aren’t you?”

I swallow. “I’ve fooled around a bit.”

He sees right through my lie. “Ah, you’re a delicious virgin, aren’t you?

You may dress like a vixen for the stage but really, you’re untouched.” I open my mouth, then shut it. How do I even answer that?

“Oh fuck, am I going to enjoy taking that. I’ll ruin you. Best of all? You’ll beg me to. Beg.”

Fear lances through me at the same time as a deep beat of desire. He looks at me with hunger, a need I didn’t expect. It’s heat and ice and something so dark, it steals the air from my lungs.

“My Rose,” he whispers, lips brushing mine. “You’re mine now.”

“Is that why you took me?”

He laughs. “No, little Rose. This is just a perk.” He pauses. Snatching my chin roughly in his grasp, he forces me to meet his eyes. “I want revenge.”