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We both know it.
“Even if that’s true, don’t say it again unless you plan on letting me go.”
He grunts in reply. “Alright. I won’t say it again.”
“You can’t just act like there’s nothing weird here. Like you’re not holding me against my will.”
“I like to think I’m protecting you against your incorrect assumptions.”
“I doubt it.”
“What can I do to convince you, Hellie?”
“I don’t know,” I admit and realize it’s true.
I keep doing this, tumbling down into this pit with him, only to find myself staring back out at the light, wishing I were somewhere else.
Somewhere free.
Except I’m here, which means I’m out of the reach of Gallo and Frost.
He really is protecting me—but I can’t help thinking it’s all for his own selfish reasons.
“I’m going to stay here a while,” he says, breathing the smell of my hair. “If that’s okay with you.”
“That’s okay,” I answer, because it’s exactly what I want.
Chapter23
Hellie
Iwake up and squint against the sunlight. My bed’s cold, and it takes me a minute to realize Erick’s gone. The covers next to me are messy and the pillow’s got a big indent, which means he slept here, at least for a while.
With nothing else to do, I stay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
Sleeping with Erick—both sex-wise and just the normal, regular old sleep thing—is a really bad idea.
It’s bizarre and dangerous, and if I were remotely smart, I’d run away screaming.
Except the thought of stopping, of giving up one of the few things that have ever reliably made me feel good, is too painful to consider.
I haven’t had many boyfriends over the years. Guys have come and gone, but none ever stuck around, and none ever made me feel the way I do about Erick. This love and hate, this pleasure and pain, he’s all of it and he’s so much more. He’s adrenaline and fear, he’s a hand spanking my ass and lips kissing my mouth. Silk and iron.
The man kidnapped me. There’s no getting around that. He picked me up off the street, injected me with a drug, and dragged me out to the middle of the desert.
I haven’t forgotten about that.
Only things are different. We’re different—there’s a bond between us, and it isn’t only sex.
It’s the way he takes care of me.
I get out of bed, wash up, dress in comfies and head to the studio. I pad quietly down the hall and check to make sure he’s not around before I shut the door as softly as I can. The painting I showed him is still on the easel where I left it, but I bypass that and head to the racks of painting equipment.
It’s down there, behind the big cans of paint. I fish it out from where I hid it—just a small canvas, two feet by two feet.
The colors are dark. Moody. Blues, grays, dark purples, blacks. It shows a man, shirtless, in dress slacks, standing near a window. The room is covered in shadow. The desert beyond is bright, a contrast to him.
But the figure is everything.
