Page 7 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

T he first thing I see when I open my eyes is blackness.

Not just dim light or shadows— no .

This is pitch.

Full suffocating dark.

Like someone dropped me into a velvet-lined coffin.

I blink, trying to adjust, but it’s useless. There’s nothing to see.

My head is aching, and I feel groggy.

Panic slithers into my chest, fast and cold. I gasp, sharp and shallow.

“Easy,” a voice says from somewhere close—but it’s distorted.

Like it’s been run through some kind of filter.

Mechanical. Flat. Modulated.

“Take the pills in the cup and drink some water. It will help.”

I swallow, wincing as my headache sharpens.

I know I shouldn’t trust this person—this scary ass stranger using a fake voice.

I mean, who the hell uses a voice modulator?

No one with good intentions is my first thought.

“Take the pills. They’re just aspirin, Princess. It will help.”

“Like I believe you.”

“They’re still in the packet. You’ll think more clearly with the headache gone.”

I want to spit and curse, but honestly?

The sound of my own voice is splitting my head open.

So, I feel around and find the tiny, sealed packet.

I tear it open and remove the two small pills. Then, I put them in my mouth and I reach around some more.

I find the bottle of water and I open it, swallowing the pills down with the cool, crisp water.

Do I want to listen? No, but I’m not stupid. And he’s got a point.

I drink the rest of the water and close my eyes, waiting for the aspirin to kick in. I’m not sure how many minutes go by.

“Feeling better?”

“Fuck you! Where am I? Who are you?” I demand, my voice shaking as I push myself upright. “Do you know who I am? My father is going to kill you!”

Rage boils to the surface like lava. I go from zero to sixty in half a second flat, just like I always do.

“Relax, Princess.”

“Yeah, right,” I reply, trying my best to see.

But it’s pointless. It’s too dark.

I might not know what the heck is happening. But it’s obvious I’ve been kidnapped.

And honestly? I don’t even care why—because right now, all I want is to go home.

“Look, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone,” I say, desperate to get out of here.

That’s a lie, though. I will tell someone. Everyone.

My father is Adrik Volkov.

My uncles are literal wolves in suits.

I even have honorary uncles who are Vipers.

My sister is married to Liam O’Doyle.

My cousins are married to scary fuckers, too.

My family doesn’t just have influence— we are the table everyone wants a seat at.

This? Kidnapping? It’s honestly kind of cliché.

I mean, yeah— it sucks.

And yeah— it’s humiliating.

It’s also not the first time someone’s tried to use me to get to my family. I know how this works.

My wrists tremble in my lap as I pull on the hem of my dress. It doesn’t help. Goosebumps break out across my skin. It feels clammy, my pulse is a staccato drum beneath my breastbone, and my mouth tastes like panic.

But the real reason I’m cold?

He’s watching me.

Somewhere in this cavernous space— this surreal den of velvet shadows and dark secrets —he’s lounging like a predator that already knows the outcome.

“You really want to leave already?” His voice slithers through the air like smoke, warm and sharp, curling around my spine. “We didn’t even get to the good part.”

I flinch.

What the hell does that mean?

“Are you kidding?” I snap, voice high and shaking. “You—you kidnapped me! Drugged me! I could press charges?—”

“You’re the one who’s kidding yourself, Princess.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue like a secret. Like a sin.

“Tell me. How many nights have you dreamed this? How many times have you wished some dark lover would slither inside your room from the shadows and steal you away?”

My breath catches— actually catches —like a damn heroine in one of the historical bodice-rippers I sneak-read under the covers.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I do.

God help me, I do.

Because his voice is a scalpel, and he’s cutting me open with it.

Peeling back all the layers I’ve carefully constructed— good girl, honors student, loyal daughter, obedient niece —and laying bare the secret rot underneath.

The darkness inside me that might actually want this.

That used to fantasize about being dragged into the dark by a man with wicked hands and a filthy mouth.

“I’m talking about you being honest,” he says low. “With me. With yourself.”

“You don’t know me,” I whisper, scooting backwards towards the pillows and headrest, my fingers tightening on the blanket beneath me, like it might save me.

But even I can hear how weak the denial sounds.

Like a lie I’ve told myself too many times.

And the stranger? My kidnapper? He doesn’t stop. Just keeps talking through whatever gadget he’s using to disguise himself.

“Oh, I know you, princess. And I know all the desperate wishes you’ve whispered into the night. I know what keeps you awake long after the world sleeps. What your fingers seek when no one is watching. The ache you’ve never named out loud.”

Heat floods my face.

My thighs press together before I can stop myself.

Oh God. Oh God.

How does he know?

How could a stranger possibly know?

Except he doesn’t feel like a stranger.

Not really.

There’s something in the way he speaks— in the rough cadence of his voice, in the sharpness of his observations, in the certainty —that makes something dangerous unfurl inside me.

A truth I don’t want to admit.

Not even to myself.

Because even if I did scream, even if I did run?

Some deep, hidden part of me wants to stay.

“Headache gone?”

I nod.

“Good girl.”

Fuck.

I shiver at his words. I know he’s disguising his voice, but still, it’s deep and gritty.

And here’s the truly embarrassing part?

My brain, in all its frantic, oxygen-deprived chaos, decides to go there.

Straight to every dark, spicy romance novel I’ve ever devoured under the covers at two in the morning.

The ones with obsessive antiheroes who don’t knock—they break in.

The ones with morally gray kings and vengeful gods, deadly crime lords, war-torn generals, shifter alphas with glowing eyes and claws hidden beneath bespoke suits.

The ones where the heroine is stolen, claimed, ruined— only to realize she loves it.

Needs it.

The ones Daddy said I wasn’t allowed to read until I was older— which, of course, meant I started sneaking them when I was thirteen.

And it’s not my fault I’m addicted. Truly, how could it be?

Not when my mother is Z. Wolff, the literal queen of BookTok’s dark romance charts.

She’s built an empire on twisted fairy tales and scarred monsters who fall hard for fierce, fragile girls.

And now I’m standing in the middle of what feels like a scene pulled straight from one of her books.

This is the living embodiment of every trope I ever dreamed of.

The dark prince.

The man in the shadows.

The one who would raze kingdoms just to keep me safe in his bed.

And I’m not even sure which part of that thrills me more.

The danger?

The devotion?

Or the fact that he didn’t ask for me—he took me.

Every time he speaks to me with that wild, hungry voice, I feel like Persephone the moment Hades dragged her into the Underworld.

But in this version?

Maybe Persephone isn’t fighting the descent.

She’s digging her fingers into her dark king’s lapels and kissing him like he’s the only oxygen she’s ever known.

Because here’s the truth I’ve never dared say out loud.

I like the monsters in love stories.

The ones who protect you with knives and whisper that you're theirs before they even know your name.

The ones who get blood on their hands but never let a single drop touch you.

I love the ones who never flinch.

Who never back down.

Who burn down the world and call it romance.

And maybe it’s crazy, but this man?

He’s kinda like all of that.

The beast. The storm. The shadow that wraps around me like silk.

And I think— I know —that somewhere deep inside me, I’ve always been waiting for someone exactly like him.

God help me.

I’ve been kidnapped by a dark monster, and it’s my favorite trope.

Honestly, I’m not even sorry yet.