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“N-N-Noel.”
Noel.How fitting for my innocent little baker boy. “Noel,” I repeat in a soft whisper, trying it out on my tongue.
He swallows. I wet my lips, my gaze traveling down his body to take in just how fucking gorgeous he is.
“Yeah. Noel,” he says, his head nodding up and down frantically.
My grip on his chin tightens, holding him firmly so that his firefly eyes don’t leave mine. “I won’t hurt you, Noel. At least, if you do what I say.”
“I will. I promise.”
I smirk. He’s so agreeable—submissive. It makes the beast deep inside me growl and claw at its chain to see just how far I can push his submissiveness.Yeah,I’m going to keep him.“Get your things. We’re going home.”
He gapes up at me, mouth flopping with uncertainty. Then, he nods and scrambles to his feet. “Home. Y-You’re letting me go?”
“Oh,malysh.” I chuckle, shaking my head. I reach for the winter coat hanging on a rack when he doesn’t make a move for it.
His entire body stiffens when I approach him and help him into the jacket. I zip it up, then squeeze his shoulders. A soft whimper escapes him. The sweet noises he makes are already intoxicating. I imagine my mouth claiming his and drinking up every sound. I bet he tastes as sweet as the treats he bakes in this shop.
“Let me make something clear for you, Noel,” I say. Satisfaction fills my veins as he nods. “When we go outside, you’ll walk in front of me. You’ll climb into the passenger seat of my car without a fight. If you struggle, I’ll blow your brains all over the street just as I did to Dimitri.”
He stares at me, wide-eyed, another squeak leaving him. “I won’t. I swear.”
I study him for a moment, and though I see nothing but honesty in those pretty eyes, I still don’t fully trust him. People do stupid things when they’re forced into fight-or-flight situations. And being held hostage by a Russian assassin is definitely one of those.
Noel listens. He doesn’t run despite his uncontrollable shaking as he walks past the dead man in the alleyway, and when he reaches the getaway car, I don’t miss the way he flattens his hand against the trunk to leave his fingerprints behind.
When he’s situated in the car, I take my gloved hand and wipe the handprint away. As if I’d be stupid enough to let him leave any traces of himself behind. I’ll punish him for that. Spank his tight ass until I’ve marked it red and he can barely sit.
Irrationality leaves the second I start the car. Rule number one of murder. Take the victim to a secondary site.
I should be taking him to one of our warehouses. Or out of the city and toward the Adirondacks. Not to one of my homes. Why do I have this overwhelming urge to see him in my personal space, amongst my things? I want to keep him for myself, so I head out of the Bronx, onto Washington Bridge, and head for my cabin in the Catskills.
Three
Noel
The further away from the city we drive, the more intense my panic gets, bubbling inside me at a rolling boil—moments away from overspilling. We’re on a desolate road, in the middle of the woods somewhere. I feel warm as my sweat gathers at my brow. The doors and roof of the car seem to be closing in on me and I’m moments away from climbing out the window, even though the car is still moving.
What about my Ani? What will she do without me? She needs me.
Every time I try to speak, I clam up. The hulking, silent man in the driver’s seat is terrifying. His sleek, designer suit, hand tattoos, and Russian accent screammobster. So do his dead eyes and the deep scowl on his face. My gaze drops to the gun holstered under his arm, and I remember how lethal my captor is. The way he shot that man in the alley plays over and over in my mind as he takes me deeper into the woods.
He may be handsome with a square jaw, dark brown eyes, and chiseled cheeks, but that doesn’t fool me. I’m under no illusion of safety–this man can end me in a split second, for whatever reason he chooses. And I don’t even know his name.
I watched a crime special with my mom once, and the cop being interviewed said that if you’re captured, it’s best to connect with your captor. You need to make yourself seem like a real person so it’s harder to kill you.
Maybe if I try to talk to him, he’ll let me go?
“Ummm, what’s your name?” I practically whisper, my nerves crackling like a live wire.
He glances at me, his face expressionless. Readjusting his hand on the steering wheel, he takes several moments to answer me, as if he’s debating with himself whether or not he wants to tell me.
“Collector.”
A man of many words it seems…
He focuses on the road again, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console. Even through his coat, I can see the outline of his muscled biceps. Most likely from all his illicit activities. He’s so relaxed and confident in himself, like he regularly abducts innocent bakers on a Tuesday night. The thought makes me sick. Will he hurt me? The woods are thick around us, and no one is out here. I can totally see him dropping my dead body in a shallow grave nearby when he kills me.
