Page 9 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

“ R elax,” he says, tone slipping into something almost soothing. “The sedative I gave you might leave you feeling queasy.”

My stomach twists. “Sedative? You drugged me!”

“Of course. I couldn’t have you waking up before we got here, could I?”

“You could have killed me?—”

“I would never hurt you,” he interrupts angrily.

I think he’s insulted.

Can you believe this guy?

The bed I’m sitting on is soft, and the temperature is more than comfortable. He’s right though, I feel a little less queasy now. My headache is gone.

And I’m actually wondering what kind of snacks he left me.

Jesus. Christ. What is wrong with me?

Truth is, I hate how good I’m starting to feel when I know I should be screaming.

“You’re sick,” I finally reply, recoiling slightly at the sharp sound of my own voice.

“You have no idea,” he growls, the words rough and dark and thick with something feral.

Oh, fuck.

My breath catches.

My body betrays me.

I squeeze my thighs together beneath the silk, shame blooming in my chest like wildfire.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I should be terrified. I am terrified.

But beneath the fear, beneath the outrage, there’s something else.

Something warm.

Slow. Wanting.

It doesn’t make sense.

I’ve always had this fantasy— twisted and wrong and shaped by too many of my mother’s dark romance novels —about being wanted too much.

About being claimed. Taken. Consumed.

But that’s fiction.

This is real.

Isn’t it?

And yet, I can’t stop imagining him. Behind the voice.

What he looks like.

What his hands feel like.

What he’d do if I begged him not to stop instead of to let me go.

I breathe in slowly through my nose. Try to calm the spiraling storm inside me.

“Rest now,” he says, softer this time.

Like he cares.

Like he’s not the villain in this story. More like the author who wrote it.

Then— silence.

It stretches.

Long. Heavy. Intimate.

Like he’s still in the room. Watching. Breathing with me.

Smiling while I lie here alone, wrapped in the scent of roses and his voice, pretending I don’t want the monster in the dark to come back and touch me.

A few beats later, I feel more than hear the soft hiss of a door sealing shut.

And a second after that, soft lighting flickers on, revealing a room so luxurious it steals the breath from my lungs.

What the actual hell?

It’s like a fantasy come to life.

Like someone plucked my dreams right out of my head and willed them into existence.

The bedding is white. Expensive. Egyptian cotton.

There's a plush armchair in the corner, a vanity with my favorite brand of lip balm, my skin cream, facial products, hair— even a bouquet of Halfeti roses, sometimes called Black Magic Roses, sit in a crystal vase —my favorite, arranged exactly how I like them.

The room is perfect.

Too perfect.

It’s like he’s heard my most secret wishes.

Like he’s been watching me.

And as my heart hammers in my chest and my eyes scan the space— searching for a camera I know has to be there but can’t quite see —I start to piece it together.

This isn’t a ransom situation.

This isn’t about money.

Or politics.

Or making a statement to the Volkov Clan.

This is personal.

This isn’t about my family.

This is about me.

And the realization hits like ice water down my spine.

Whoever he is— this masked voice, this captor who calls me Princess with that infuriating mix of mockery and reverence I hear and identify despite the modulator —he didn’t take me because of who my father is.

He took me because of who I am.

Because he knows me.

Not just my face.

Not just the pale media image.

Not just the curated version of Leanna Volkov that smiles for cameras and makes polite small talk at charity galas.

No.

He knows my favorite flower.

He knows the brand of lip balm I hoard in every purse I own.

He knows how I like my lighting—soft and golden like candlelight, not harsh fluorescents.

He knows.

And that’s what scares me.

Not because I think he’ll hurt me.

I mean, he might. I don’t know.

I’m certain he’s capable.

This man could break me apart, piece by piece, if he wanted to.

But that’s not what makes my stomach twist and my pulse flutter.

It’s that some dark, shameful part of me likes it .

Wants it.

Maybe even invited it?

Because I’ve dreamed of this .

Not the kidnapping part— not exactly —but of being seen.

Truly, deeply seen.

Wanted not for my name or my net worth or who my family is, but because someone chooses me.

Needs me. Obsesses over me.

Someone who would burn the world down just to have me.

And I know how that sounds.

I know how twisted it is.

But I can’t help the way my heart clenches in my chest, not from terror— but from this aching, desperate hope.

Because there’s one man I’ve secretly loved since I was old enough to understand what love even was.

One man I’ve imagined in every dark fantasy.

One man I’ve written into every faceless book boyfriend in my head.

And fuck, but if he’s the one behind this?

If he’s the one who’s finally come for me?

Then maybe— maybe —this isn’t a nightmare.

Maybe this is my chance.

To stop pretending.

To stop being perfect.

To stop hiding.

Maybe this is my story.

And maybe, just maybe , I don’t want to be rescued.