Page 8 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

T ruth is, I was born into this chaos.

Raised on whispers and blood oaths.

On backroom deals and velvet threats.

On beauty masking brutality— smiles sharp enough to draw blood and rules written in gold and enforced in red.

And okay, yes, it is deeply, deeply humiliating that every time I curl up with one of my mother’s books— paperback, hardcover, eReader, mood depending —I can’t help but cast myself as the heroine.

The stolen girl.

The adored obsession.

The one whose darkness was always there, just waiting for the right man to coax it free.

It’s worse that the man I always picture in the role of the possessive antihero— the morally gray villain with eyes that see too much and hands that know exactly how to ruin you?

He doesn’t even know I exist.

Not really.

I mean, he knows me.

Of course, he does.

Nico Fury Jr. isn’t the type of man to forget a face.

Especially not one who calls his mom Aunt Anna and whose father shares a private jet with his own.

We move in the same rarefied circles—our names always spoken with reverence, our family trees tangled in alliances and power.

We’re not blood, though. Just relatives of the same kingdom.

Princes and princesses of different castles built on the same brutal foundation.

But I doubt he’s ever looked at me— really looked at me —the way I’ve imagined a thousand times.

Like I’m his.

Like I’m not some sweet, polite little Volkov girl in the corner sipping champagne and smiling for charity photographers.

Like I’m prey and he’s starving.

My fantasies? They don’t care about real life. They’re messy. Shameless. Made of ink and moans and all the ways I wish someone— he —would see me.

Claim me.

My body tenses as that distorted voice cuts in again, dragging me back to the darkness I’ve been trapped in for hours.

“What are you thinking right now?”

God.

He’s still here?

Still watching?

Still playing this game?

I lift my chin, even though I can’t see him.

Even though I’m tied up in knots in the dark with my pulse thrumming like war drums in my throat.

Even though I’m terrified.

Because the truth is, I don’t know if this is still fantasy or if I’ve fallen into a waking nightmare.

“I’m thinking of all the ways my father is going to murder you,” I snap, my voice cold, clean, braver than I feel.

There’s a pause. A rustle.

Then a laugh. Low. Crackling. Static-laced and smug.

“Ha. He can try, Princess.”

The way he says it— Princess —sends a shiver straight down my spine.

Not mocking.

Claiming.

And I hate it.

But not for the reasons you think.

I hate that it makes my thighs press together.

That it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

That it ignites every single one of those forbidden book fantasies and blurs the line between fear and fascination.

Because what if this isn’t pretend?

What if he sees me?

What if the monster I’ve been dreaming of has come for me at last?

And what if I don’t want to be saved? Not yet. Maybe not at all.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re really thinking?” he asks.

And just like that— damn.

Why does that voice— cold and anonymous and absolutely twisted —turn me on?

There has to be something wrong with me.

I am talking about actual psychological damage.

Stockholm syndrome via spicy literature.

Diagnosis. Book-brained and delusional.

“What do you want from me?” I ask instead of answering.

I’m trying to be strong, stern, but my voice is softer now.

Too breathy. Too wanting.

And I hate that he can probably hear it.

“My family has money,” I add quickly. “If it’s ransom you’re after?—”

“I don’t want your money.”

That stops me cold.

“What do you want then?” I cough a little, my words getting stuck in my throat.

“If you need water, there’s another bottle to your right. Snacks, too. And if you need the bathroom, it’s on the other side of the room.”

“Great. I’ll probably break my leg getting there,” I mutter, annoyed now, but I’m not even sure if it’s at him or myself.

“The lights will come on after I leave. But don’t even think about trying to escape, Princess,” he says, then his voice gets even deeper. “You can’t.”

“Yeah?” I scoff, trying to mask the chill that snakes down my spine. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about me.”

My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, brittle with nerves, but I hold my ground.

Even if I’m sitting in the dark.

Even if I’m wrapped in uncertainty, in a place I didn’t choose, in a room I don’t recognize, owned by a man I haven’t even seen.

“I know you,” he says, and it’s too calm.

Low. Even. Confident in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“Trust me, Princess,” he continues. “I know just about everything about you—and what I don’t? I plan on learning.”

I shiver. Not from cold. From something far more dangerous.

I hate how those words sound in his mouth.

No, that’s a lie.

I think I love it.

God help me.