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Hell, they had a gate around the property. That’s about the most I’d seen as we pulled up, right before they put the blindfold over my eyes. I took a step toward the door, but right above me I heard pounding, maybe footsteps? Or maybe it was music? Either way, it had me freezing in place, my head cocked back, my focus on the ceiling.
My heart was racing once again as I continued to hear that noise above me. I took a step back toward the bed, and another, until I felt the mattress hit the back of my knees. And then I let myself fall back, sitting down, reaching out and gripping the soft comforter beneath me.
I let my back fall onto the mattress and I stared at the stark-white ceiling. The music was loud but muffled, heavy with bass. I rolled onto my side, got into the fetal position, bringing my knees to my chest, and curled my arms around my legs.
I stared at the wall, at that blank slate, thinking about my life, at the events that had transpired. And for the first time since standing in that jewelry store, I cried.
I cried for Richard and that he was hurt, that his store had been robbed.
I cried for the fact that I couldn’t help him, hadn’t been able to protect him.
I sobbed when I thought about where my life was headed now, that I had no idea what the future held.
But I cried the hardest, feeling the tears slide down my cheeks and soak the comforter beneath me, because the things I felt for the man who kidnapped me weren’t normal… but I felt like they were.
I felt like it’s what I’d been missing my whole life.
Chapter Eight
Dom
I heard Cullen slam the door to one of the rooms and turn on some music, the bass pounding through the walls. Although Cullen rarely stayed at the house overnight, I did realize how much time he spent here when all four of us were under the same roof. A part of me assumed it was him wanting to be close—still protecting us even though he didn’t need to—and even if he’d never actually admit it. Frankie and Wilder had their own places, as well, but after every job we did together the two of them would stay the night and get piss ass drunk and high. It was almost like a ritual to them at this point.
And here I was, my room, my living quarters in the basement. It was another form of me getting away from everyone and everything. I preferred my solitude, as did my brothers, but instead of selling this fucking house, or even getting my own place like they had, I hung onto it and made it my own, even with all the fucking bad memories attached to it.
I thought of her. She was downstairs, waiting for me in my room… because I’d kidnapped her and she was my prisoner.
I heard Frankie and Wilder come inside from the garage, looked over my shoulder and saw they refused to make eye contact. They knew better. They were the youngest out of the four of us and fell in line pretty easily where Cullen and I were concerned. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have their own mean streaks, their own stubborn natures.
They were Preacher boys, after all.
The twins weren’t hardened like Cullen and me. They’d been shielded from our father’s anger and annoyance at having to take care of four kids on his own. We were more like workers to our father, little thieves he could mold for his own gain.
Cullen and I had nurtured them the best we could, the best two young boys knew how to. With no mother—well, no mother they remembered—and a slew of random women coming and going for our father’s pleasure, we were left to fend for ourselves.
I scrubbed a hand over the back of my head and watched them disappear down the hall toward Frankie’s section of the house. No doubt he had a few bottles of whiskey in his room and a stack of joints. It was their routine after a job, their ritual. They’d toss back some shots and smoke a joint before finding out how much we each would get.
Fuck, what was I doing? What was I going to do with Amelia?
I headed back downstairs and stopped when I was right in front of my closed bedroom door. For a second, I contemplated just leaving her be until I could get my thoughts together, but fuck, I wanted to go in there and see her, talk to her, touch her… just fucking look at her.
What has she done to me?
If I believed in witches and paranormal shit, I might have thought she’d cast a spell on me, made me this obsessed maniac who was totally okay with kidnapping a woman and keeping her prisoner in my room.
