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I worked really hard to succeed, never once considering using my body to get ahead, even when one of my academy instructors called me in late one night, assuring me my fast track to detective should I suck his cock there and then. But now, I did what I swore I’d never do—use my body to get ahead. What’s worse is that I didn’t push him away, leaving me more confused than ever.
When I finally muster the courage to leave the bedroom, I find him at the stove. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a wide expanse of bare chest with the word Santoro inked across it. The fresh, clean scent of soap mixes with the pancakes. He must’ve showered during the short time I was asleep this morning.
It isn’t the promise of food that makes my mouth water when he turns my way, holding a plate. It’s memories I’m helpless against, and the sight of his chiseled abs isn’t helping.
“It’s just a boxed mix, eggs, and water, but it’s better than nothing.” He leaves the plate on the table before turning back to the stove. There’s a small bottle of syrup waiting for me along with a fork. No knife, I note. He doesn’t trust me enough for that. And I don’t blame him.
I can’t make this image of a domestic and even slightly cheerful man line up with the monster who ravished me days ago. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I found him storming toward me. He was enraged, ready to kill. All because he couldn’t find me in the cabin. He thought I ran away as if I would. I’m not suicidal.
Slowly, I lower myself onto one of the hard wooden chairs by the table, wincing at the pain still present in my leg. It’s not nearly as sharp anymore, but it’s still there, especially first thing in the morning. My hands shake as I cut into the pancakes with the side of my fork before I’ve even added syrup. They are dry and flavorless, but they’re hot and filling. I add syrup and take another huge mouthful, chewing fast before shoveling more in. Nerves have left my appetite spotty at best, but today it’s raging.
I’m already halfway through when he sits down across from me with his plate. “I don’t do a lot of this,” he murmurs, and it’s strange. His voice is somehow softer. That edge of resentment is gone, or at least far enough away that it’s barely noticeable.
“Kidnapping?” I ask between bites. Maybe I’m more suicidal than I thought since the word came out before I could help it.
He snorts softly. “Something like that.” After a mouthful of pancakes, he coughs at their dryness before taking a long drink from a glass of orange juice. “I had to eyeball the measurements,” he admits with a wry chuckle.
“This is fine.”
“Of course it is. I’m not sure you can taste it. You’re eating so fast.” Am I imagining the humor in his voice? Is there something funny about this situation? I’m still his captive—pancakes or no pancakes, oral sex or no oral sex.
Yet when he looks up from his plate, our eyes meet, and the corners of his mouth stir like he’s trying to suppress a grin. Part of me wants to return it, making me want to scream.
We are not in this together.
We are not partners.
We are not friends.
We are nothing to each other. And there is no reason for me to soften in his presence. An enormous, shattering orgasm isn’t going to make me forget who I am or who he is.
“Can I ask you something?” Since he’s in a good mood, I may as well see how far I can get. “What’s your play here, really?”
“My play?” he asks with a snort. “Where did you pick up your terminology? The police academy?”
“Could you answer my question?” I ask with a weary roll of my eyes.
“It doesn’t concern you,” he insists.
“You’re holding me hostage in a cabin in the middle of the woods. You prevented me from being murdered… twice. I think this concerns me very much.”
He lowers his brow. “We’ll agree to disagree.”
If this blasé attitude is meant to piss me off, he’s succeeding. “If you’re going to hand me over, why not get it over with? You can’t keep me like this forever.”
“Be careful.” He doesn’t miss a beat, cutting another segment of pancake away from the rest, spearing it with his fork, and dragging it through syrup. “I’m not in the mood to fight today, but you could take me there. Understood?”
No. I do not understand because I’ve never dealt with someone like him before. All I have are questions, fears, none of which are being served by a shitty, if filling, breakfast. He says one thing, then does another. He wants the privilege of ending my life but can’t seem to get around to going through with it. Why? If I could only figure that out, I could use it against him. And that’s exactly why he won’t reveal what’s going on in his head. Because once I know, he’s toast. And he knows it.
Maybe I can push him hard enough that he’ll crack. Do I want to take that chance? Because once he cracks, what happens then? Do I make it out alive?
And if the alternative is being stuck here, wondering if every day is going to be my last, is it maybe smarter to let him do what he’s going to do? Just to get it over with? Because the thing is, the longer I’m with him, the greater the chance of giving myself to him. If he had fucked me like an animal after going down on me, I would’ve let him and welcomed it. Hell, I would’ve fucked him back. And that simply cannot be.
When I think of it that way, it seems a lot easier to let him get this over with while I still have a little of my soul left. “I want to go home.”
“I don’t remember asking what you want.” He finishes cleaning his plate, shooting me a filthy look. “Do me a favor and keep your bitching to yourself, okay?”
“Why should I?” He wants to play games? I can play games too. I fold my arms and arch an eyebrow, which means going against every self-preserving instinct I possess. This is not a man to screw around with, yet I’m doing it. “Here you are with all your threats and empty promises.”
