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Finally, I find my voice. “Where are we going?”
“The Catskills,” he replies, with no further elaboration.
“Well, Collector, I love the w-w-woods—” I stutter, trying hard not to choke on my own fear, “But I need to go home. I have people who depend on me… My girl, my mom, my brother. My friends. The customers who come to the shop every day…”
He sneers, and stops the car in the middle of the road abruptly, causing my back to hit the seat. There’s no one behind us, and the only light comes from his high beams and the stars above. His anger, evident in his drawn brows and scowl, radiates through the car, and I stare at the floor, too scared to look at him. He reaches across the seat, and takes my chin in a bruising grip, forcing me to lock eyes with him. His dead eyes light up, a fire burning within them. A warmth I don’t understand spreads through me. My stomach knots with a heavy feeling that isn’t fear over what will happen next… I can’t explain it, but it’s intense and confusing.
He’s my captor…so why is he making me feel so flushed and uncomfortable?
“Too bad for them. You’re mine now,malysh. Get used to it,” he growls.
His? What does he mean byhis? I would ask, but I’m too tongue-tied to string words together.
We start driving again, and I contemplate what he could possibly mean as I stare out the window at the passing trees. Eventually, the car slows and we turn down a private drive. The trees clear as we continue down the long, narrow road, which leads to a beautiful two-story cabin. The windows are decorated with holly wreaths and a lone candle each. All the scene needs is a fresh coat of snow and it would look like something out of a Christmas story. It’s not something I envision Mr. Russian Mobster residing in.
He parks the car in a garage on the side of the cabin, then turns to look at me. His hand rests on the handle of his gun, a clear threat. This man murdered someone in cold blood in my alleyway. I know he wouldn’t hesitate to end me if I put even a single toe out of line.
“You’re going to stay in the car, and I’ll come around to get you. There will be consequences if you try to run. Then we’ll go into the house and discuss the rules.”
After he opens my car door, he grabs my arm, roughly hauling me out onto my feet. He keeps a tight hold on me as he maneuvers us through the door at the back of the three-car garage, into the house. It’s gorgeous. When I look up, I see a high chapel ceiling with exposed beams. The walls are smoothed wood, with large windows that would let in beautiful natural light in the daytime. The furniture is sparse but cozy—two large, toffee-colored leather couches and a beautiful cream fabric chair. A fuzzy blanket is draped over the back of the far couch. I momentarily imagine myself snuggled underneath it while a roaring fire burns in the fireplace across from it, reading a book… Until I remember that this man abducted me. After murdering a man in my alleyway. And he thinks I’m staying here as his prisoner.
“You have a beautiful home.”
“Wehave a beautiful home,” he corrects me. “Let me show you the kitchen.”
Before I can remind him that I, in fact, don’t live here and have people who need me back in the Bronx, he tugs me into a gorgeous professional-level kitchen. All the appliances are stainless steel, with black marble countertops. Its open-concept plan includes an island with seating and a dining table in a nook that has a sliding door to an outside seating area. The double oven could and eight burner range are straight out of the kitchen of my dreams.
Collector’s rough fingertips find my jaw and push it up, closing it. “I thought you’d like it. Open the fridge,” he purrs in his gravelly Russian accent.
The fridge is stocked with fresh food, and the pantry next to it has staples and baking supplies. I’m speechless. I grew up with a single mom who worked hard to make ends meet but never had an abundance of food like this, even as an adult. My eyes burn as I try to blink away tears.
“Don’t crymalysh, you can make whatever you want, whenever you want. After you have some rest, you can make us some brunch,” he comforts me. His smooth voice calms me somewhat until I actually think about what he said.
After you’ve had some rest…I can’t sleep here. Ani is at home–myhome–and she needs me. I can’t just leave her back in the Bronx, waiting for me to come home. It’s just us…I’m all she has.
“Collector, I can’t stay here. I need to get home, Ani—” Before I can finish, he grabs me by my shoulders, hauling my body against his with lightning speed. He backs me up against the counter and loosely collars my throat, pinning me in place.
“Yes, you can. You’re mine now, little baker. This is your home, and you’ll make yourself comfortable because you will not be going back. Ever.” The threat in his voice is clear. He really wants me to stay here, forever. In his home, away from Ani.
I try to wriggle free of him, but his grip on my throat tightens. His leg comes between my own, his thick thigh cramming into the space. My groin rubs against it as I try to free myself from his hold, making my dick hard as a rock. What the fudge is wrong with me—I’m actually getting turned on struggling against this Russian mob monster.
He takes my hair tie out, fisting my hair close to the scalp as he tips my head back. We look at each other for a moment before he takes my mouth in a brutal kiss. When our lips touch, it feels as if the whole room is tilting. My whole body vibrates with need as his soft lips take my own in a forceful and claiming display of dominance, exactly how a man like him should kiss. I stop struggling and melt into him.
His tongue dances with my own, and electricity courses through my body. I whimper as he trails his lips down my jaw, to the column of my neck.
“I love the sounds you make,malysh. They’re only for me,” he whispers in my ear. He peppers kisses, making his way back to my mouth. He bites my bottom lip, and I groan.
Then he pulls back, looking at me with wide eyes, pupils blown into big, black orbs.
I think I may be getting some early-onset Stockholm syndrome because I’m falling for my kidnapper.
Four
Tomas
Noel’s mouth tastes just as sweet as he smells. His lips are soft, pliant like a half-baked cookie, so easily shaped for my pleasure. I didn’t want to break the kiss. I’d wanted to take things further, but my little runner is still shaking like a leaf.
So, despite the deep desire burning within me, I force myself to pull away from him but not before biting down on his bottom lip. He whimpers when I release my grip on his shirt. His eyes snap closed, and I sense the turmoil of emotions fluttering through him.
