Page 57 of His Keepsake

I took the handbag from him, and I already wore my shoes. The collar, though…I touched it.

Mr. Scott appraised me, a grim smile twitching at his mouth before he came nearer, closing the space. It was quiet and late, and no one else was out walking in my neighborhood. I was grateful for that. When he leaned in and gently moved the spiked collar around my neck, I swear I melted.

A familiar shimmy of lust ran down to my clit, and to my center, and I may have swayed into his touch. His fingers felt nice there, working at the buckle. His breath on me, ditto.

“Done. Your keys are in your bag.” He slipped free the collar, then pulled my head aside and placed a kiss on my neck. “What would you do, sweet, deviant Emme, if I hauled you into that alley and fucked you, now.”

Stunned, I stared back, and surely my eyes were as big as the moon.

He laughed and backed away a step. “Go. Before I do worse to you.”

After clearing my throat and scowling at him to show I wasn’t scared, I set off across the street. The tap of my shoes was a peculiarly vulnerable sound, for I walked away from the devil.

At the glass door, I turned in time to see his black Mercedes slip down the street. His car growled like a well-bred lion, same as he did. Crap. Stop thinking that.

Up in my apartment, I locked the door, thoroughly, verified it was secure, then flaked out on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Inwardly, I did a check of all my systems. Sore ass, sore there, hurting there, yes. Bruises on my neck. Anything permanently horrid? No.

My stomach had bulked up into a queasy knot, one that was currently trying to surge up my throat. I bolted for the bathroom and threw up in the sink, then I threw up some more.

I stared into the mirror, head hanging low, eyes red, wondering if it was safe to lie down again.

“Anyone normal would be phoning the cops by now.” Truth.

What had I done?

Eventually, I washed my face and the sink, and drank, then trudged back to the bedroom where I collapsed and tried to sleep. Instead the crying came. I wept into my pillow until the fucking sun arrived and strafed the room with light. I groaned and sat up.

“Done crying, Emme?” I muttered. I hooked my handbag off the floor with my toes and placed it on the dresser beside the cellphone. He’d said he would mine my phone for data. He knew where I lived. What else did he know. Should I worry?

The sane answer: Yes.

I felt desolate, as if I had lost something, but I was not sure what that something was.

Was it my CNC fantasy that was gone? I’d done it and messed up, ended up terrified, a bit. Not terrified like the good fear could be, either.

I sniffled and reached for a tissue to blow my nose, then ended up burying my face in my hands. I was in shock, or something. This too shall pass.

I should phone the police but knew I wouldn’t. I should phone Charity, but I wasn’t ready for that, either. How much did I want to tell her?

Maybe I should text the guy who had stood me up and indirectly caused this? He’d left me nothing while I was AWOL from my phone. That said, he was either uninterested or the phone lost his calls?

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I said softly. Those were his words. Mr. Scott’s.

I should shower. I sniffed the shirt I still wore and found it smelled of him. I pulled it off and for a few seconds stared at the cloth. I was not going to do that—keep it unwashed so I could smell my kidnapper. No. That way lay a trip to an asylum.

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