Page 77 of Wicked Heat

I shudder, then hurry from the bedroom, my spinning thoughts making me more than willing to swallow my pride and wake Ash up for company.

But when I reach the open door to the master suite, I find that he’s not there.

Tendrils of worry creep up my back, and I look around for a clock since I don’t have my phone. I remember the timer on his phone going off earlier, and him saying he had to leave for a meeting. But that wasn’t long after we’d arrived, and the ornate clock on the living room wall makes clear that it’s well-past midnight now.

I tell myself this is a good thing. After all, by the terms of our deal, I’m that man’s property. I shouldn’t crave him. On the contrary, I should be relieved to have time to myself.

Except that’s all bullshit. I’m not relieved. I’m lonely and I’m edgy, and I snatch up the phone by the sofa and call the front desk, only to be told that they have no more idea as to Mr. Stone’s location than I do.

So much for the concierge service at the Stark Century Las Vegas.

A tendril of anger starts to weave through me. I need him. I’m numb right now, and I need him to bring me back to life. The thought makes me cringe, and I try to push it away, telling myself not to think that. Not to believe it.

Except it’s true. I do need him. I think I’ve needed him for a long time. And right now, I’m angry that he doesn’t know that. That he’s not here beside me. That he left me.

Why would he have left me?

What I need to do is text him and ask that question, so I take a few moments to search for my phone, finally locating it between two seat cushions. I shudder, realizing I must have lost track of it while Ash and I were watching that horrible video on his phone.

That video.

I hug myself, trying to erect a mental wall to keep those vile images out of my head.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

I tap out a quick text as the memory of those images keeps coming like wildfire.

White copper kettles. Mittens. Packages. String.

Fuck.

My mantra is not soothing, and Ash isn’t answering, and I need to pee.

Since the latter is the only problem I can actually address, I head to the bathroom in the suite where I’d been sleeping.

And that, of course, is where I find the note.

In case you wake and I’m not back, a quick reminder that I left for a meeting. Tried to push to the morning, but no go. Sleep well. I will probably be back before you wake up.

The note mollifies me. And suddenly, I’m relieved that he’s not here. Because, as much as I want to be strong, I can’t help but collapse under the weight of it all, crushing my shoulders, pushing me down until I’m on the ground, hugging my knees, and rocking as I struggle to soothe myself while tears stream down my face.

I tell myself I can deal with all of this. That the real reason I’m crying is because I’m embarrassed by what he saw in that horrible, horrible video.

And that’s true. I hate that he saw me weak and vulnerable. Imprisoned and abused.

But at the same time, I’m glad. Because he wasn’t disgusted by me. He was horrified for me. And he tried to be strong for me, too.

So, yes, I’m glad. But I’m terrified, too. And not just because I’m being taunted and blackmailed, or because someone is threatening to turn my entire world upside down by releasing those horrible videos.

No, what terrifies me is me.

The vulnerability I’ve shown Ash. The fact that I’ve started to rely on him.

And the horrible, awful fear that it’s all a lie and he doesn’t have three million to transfer at all and those videos will flood the world.

But even that horrible possibility isn’t the worst of my fears.

The worst is that I want him, and that desire terrifies me on so many levels.