Page 11

Margot

I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I glance outside, the sun has set. I don’t even remember closing my eyes, but I feel shockingly well-rested. Even over the covers, this has to be the comfiest bed I’ve ever slept in.

But now that my brain is functioning again, one thing is painfully clear. I feel disgusting in my alley-murder-outfit.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I make my decision. I’m taking a shower.

I march into his absurdly organized closet and start picking out clothes.

A pair of gray sweatpants. Picture him in those .

A black t-shirt that’s soft, perfectly broken in.

A pair of socks.

And… boxer briefs.

I hesitate, staring at them for a long moment.

Screw it. I inspect them thoroughly, even sniffing to make sure they’re clean. When they pass my stringent hygiene test, I scoop them up .

If he didn’t want me borrowing his clothes, he shouldn’t have kidnapped me. So, that’s on him.

Actions have consequences, Matty.

I head to the luxury spa paradise. I mean bathroom.

It takes me several failed attempts to figure out the wall-mounted showerhead from hell. When the water finally heats to a perfect near scalding temperature, I let it run for a few extra minutes. To wash off any potential orgy residue.

Because God only knows who or what has been in this shower.

Once I step in, it’s heaven. I scrub myself down with his ridiculously expensive soaps, inhaling that fresh, crisp scent that smells like him.

I hate how much I like it.

Before I get out, I wash my own clothes and hang them to dry. Because I have standards.

I dry myself off with a towel and pull on my borrowed outfit.

The boxer briefs fit embarrassingly well. The soft, loose t-shirt goes mid-thigh. I forego my bra; that thing needed a wash more than my girls need to be perky. The sweatpants are ridiculously long. I have to fold them four times at the ankle to keep from tripping.

At this point, I’m playing dress-up in my kidnapper’s closet. But that’s his problem, not mine.

I rummage through his cabinet, looking for necessities.

Wide-tooth comb? Found it.

Toothbrush? Jackpot.

I get to work on my hair, cursing the lack of proper curl-drying tools, then brush my teeth like I’m preparing for battle.

By the time I’m done, I look like a completely different person .

I'm not exactly here of my own volition, but at least I’m clean and comfy.

Back in the absurdly lavish bedroom, I flop onto the bed.

My mind wanders. Who is this man? Who is Matthias Montclair? He’s obviously rich. And involved in something illegal. But he doesn’t feel like he’s in a gang. He’s too… put together.

I’ve lived in Boston my whole life. There aren’t gangs here. I laugh at the absurd thought.

Maybe Roman was in Chicago during the call. I know they have sketchy shit going on there.

My thoughts spiral until a knock on the door startles me.

The door swings open and in steps an older woman.

She’s short with gray hair and kind eyes.

My heart leaps. Surely this woman will help me.

“I’m here against my will.” I blurt out, my voice full of desperation. “Can you please call the cops?”

She smiles kindly, and my stomach drops.

“I’m sorry, honey. If Matthias has you here, it’s for a good reason.” Her voice is gentle, like her not helping me escape is for my own benefit. “He’s a good man. Very sensible. Unlike his brothers.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Her expression softens. “I’m just here to bring you dinner.”

That’s when I notice the tray she’s holding. And the mouthwatering smell coming from it. My traitorous stomach betrays me with an embarrassingly loud growl. I’m not one to miss a meal, and seeing as I’ve missed all three today, I can’t deny my hunger.

I debate not eating it, just out of principle, but my stomach grumbles again.

I consider the risk of the food. Realistically, what use would he have drugging me if he already has me locked up ?

Zero.

And really, I don’t think this woman would be involved in anything nefarious.

“Thank you.” I mumble.

She gives me a warm smile then leaves.

I peek at the plate.

Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. Figures he’d eat healthily.

The first bite is so good, I lose all self-control. I inhale the rest in record time. I might not be happy here, but damn it, at least I’m well-fed.

By the time I finish eating, my eyelids droop. Despite my nap, exhaustion pulls me under.

I brush my teeth again because I’m not a heathen and crawl back into bed.

Tomorrow, I’ll come up with a plan.

I will not spend another night here willingly.