Page 12 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

I get I should be screaming bloody murder.

But a large part of me just wants to accept it.

My fingers curl around each other.

I tilt my head up, staring into the endless black of the sky above, stars visible through the skylight, cold and distant.

What kind of girl gets kidnapped and finds a secret Christmas garden waiting for her?

What kind of girl sees that and feels her chest ache with something almost like wonder?

Oh God.

There is definitely something wrong with me.

Because I should be trying to break out of here.

I should be doing something. Anything.

But I don’t want to leave this room. This secret place that was made just for me— I know it was.

It’s summer outside.

But in here? It could be December 24th, forever frozen in time.

There’s no chill in the air— just warmth.

A gentle ambient heat that wraps around me like a weighted blanket.

It smells like pine needles and roses and something faintly sweet, like cinnamon and clove.

Like memory.

I should feel disoriented. But I don’t.

I feel like I’m home.

This isn’t just a spectacle meant to entice me.

It’s a Christmas spirit time capsule.

One carved out of stone and glass and knowing .

Made just for me.

And maybe that’s what unravels me the most.

Because it’s not cold. It’s warm. And it’s dark. And I love it.

I really fucking love it.

And I—I want to stay.

I walk over to the bench beneath the black roses and sit.

And for just a minute, I let myself pretend that this place— the garden, the tree, the roses, and the lights —wasn’t built by a stranger in the dark.

I let myself pretend it was a gift from someone who cares about me.

Someone who loves me.

And since I’m confessing, I really want that.

A person of my own.

A love that borders on obsession.

Even if that love might ruin me.

I back out of the magical room, back into the bedroom and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

The dress I wore to the premiere still clings to my body, too tight now that the adrenaline has drained away.

My strapless bra is digging into my ribs.

The silk is bunched in all the wrong places, riding up my thighs, clinging to my stomach.

I look like a hostage at a fashion shoot. And not in a cute, high-glam sort of way.

I’m not built for lounging in couture.

Not like the girls in the magazines.

I’ve always been more. Curvier. Softer. Bigger.

It’s not a secret, and I’m not ashamed— not really —but I also know my limits.

And one of them is sleeping in this damn dress.

I make my way into the bathroom, half-expecting to find nothing but cold tile and sterile nothingness.

Instead?

There’s a pale pink silk robe hanging from a gold hook near the vanity.

It’s delicate. Soft. Gorgeous.

And it’s big. My size.

I hesitate.

It’s foolish, I know. Creepy as hell, honestly. Someone— he —prepared this.

Like he knew I’d want out of that dress.

Like he knew I’d need something to wrap around myself to feel safe.

Still, I can’t stop my fingers from reaching for it.

The second the silk glides across my skin, I sigh—a sound that surprises even me.

It’s just so soft, like a whispered promise against my bare skin.

It wraps around me with perfect ease, falling just to mid-thigh, the sash cinching at my waist like it was made for me.

Maybe it was.

And that thought alone sends a fresh wave of nerves through me.

I step back into the bedroom, calmer now, robe tied tight, body buzzing with low-grade awareness I don’t want to name.

I climb into the bed, sinking into the mattress, the sheets cool against my legs as I lay back.

And then— click.

The lights go out.

Completely.

My breath catches in my throat.

It doesn’t just switch to pitch black like before— not exactly.

This is intentional .

The lights dim progressively, smoothly, gradually, like a theater curtain falling until they reach that impossible darkness. Until I can’t see anything at all.

My pulse thuds in my ears.

He said they’d turn on when he left. That I should rest.

But they’re off now. So, what does that mean?

I’m alone, wrapped in silk and shadows and tension, and rest feels like the last thing I want.

My skin prickles. My body hums.

And somewhere, tangled in the mess of fear and curiosity and adrenaline, something else rises.

Anticipation.

Fuck. Am I really lying here thinking about this like it’s the opening scene to one of my mother’s novels?

Holding on to my virginity for twenty-four years like it was something sacred— guarded, hidden, protected like a secret I didn’t even know I was keeping.

And now?

Now I’m lying in a stranger’s bed, wearing a silk robe he picked out for me, wondering what it would feel like if he just took the choice from me.

Is that what I want?

Do I really want to be claimed?

Ravished? Ruined?

The worst part is, I don’t even know what he looks like.

I don’t know his name. His face.

Nothing.

But his voice?

That dark, distorted, possessive voice is still in my head like a drug.

“Rest now. I’ll be back.”

And God help me, some twisted part of me really hopes he meant it.