Page 18 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Amy

Lucifer grabs his duffel bag and the groceries I apparently dropped at Turbo’s place, then leads me through the repair shop.

No one gives us a second glance. There’s no seedy manager lurking in the shadows, no creepy back office waiting behind a half-closed door—just a fire exit and, a moment later, a busy main street.

He squeezes my hand, a quiet warning. If I scream, people will die, and so will I. I nod, numb, and let him guide me like a lamb to the slaughter.

We drive in silence. I lean against the window, watching life carry on around like nothing’s happening.

Like my life, as pathetic as it was, hasn’t just been shattered to pieces.

I’ll just disappear and no one will ever know why.

Kayla will never know what happened. She’ll search, tear herself apart trying to find me.

That thought hurts more than anything else.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I realize they’re there. Lucifer’s hand lands lightly on my leg, his touch oddly gentle. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

“Right,” I whisper, because you should always agree with your captor unless you want to suffer .

As we drive further, I start recognizing the streets. We’re close to my apartment, and panic flares. Is this where he plans to kill me? Stage it like a suicide? Not even Kayla would question that.

He parks in front of my building and glances at me. “Do you have a suitcase?”

I blink at him. “Not really. There’s an old duffel bag somewhere.” I want to ask what he wants it for but decide it’s perhaps safer not to know. If he’s looking for something to stuff my body into, I’d prefer it to be a surprise.

“That’ll do. I’ll buy you new clothes, anyway, so just pack your favorites and whatever you need.”

My heart hammers. He’s not killing me here, he’s taking me with him. To where? His house? A basement? A cage?

It feels strange to be back home with Lucifer in tow. Oddly disjointed, like being in two realities at once. They’re similar enough to overlap, but the subtle difference between them is jarring.

“Cozy,” Lucifer notes as he looks around the space. My cheeks flush as I notice a bra on the couch and candy wrappers on the table. I snatch them up, flustered, but he just smirks and says nothing.

“Pack some clothes and personal items,” he reminds me. “I’ll wait.”

I nod and escape to the bedroom, digging the bag out of my closet.

My hands shake as I shove things inside—clothes, underwear, toiletries.

I don’t have a backup phone, or a secret stash of cash, nothing that could help me escape.

Even if I did, who would believe me now?

I didn’t run from Lucifer. I didn’t scream.

I even helped clean up Turbo’s blood. I’m not a victim, I’m an accomplice.

The thought paralyzes me.

Lucifer finds me like that, frozen mid-packing. “Everything okay?”

Nothing is okay, but I nod anyway. “Sure.”

He steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, cupcake. Do you have everything you need? ”

“I think so,” I murmur. “I… I don’t even know where we’re going.” I shouldn’t be asking questions, the less I know the better, but I just can’t help myself. My brain is definitely wired wrong.

To top the weirdness of the day, Lucifer looks pleased with my words rather than annoyed. I doubt that’s normal captor behavior. Perhaps his brain is wired wrong, too. “That’s simple. You’re moving in with me.”

“Into your basement, you mean.”

He chuckles. “My basement is full of junk, I really don’t have space to keep a person there. Besides, you’re far too precious to be hidden away. You deserve to be cherished and spoiled. You deserve sunlight, freedom, and a place to belong, which is right by my side.”

I don’t know what to say. Precious? Me? That was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me. Also, the most sinister but, well, it’s Lucifer, not a retriever puppy. And did he just say freedom? “I…I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he says. “Just do as you’re told, like the good girl I know you are.”

He doesn’t kiss me, though something flickers in his eyes like he might be thinking about it. Instead, he steps back. “Finish packing. Then come have dinner.” And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by half-folded clothes, too shocked to move.

Wyatt

I transfer the last French toast to the plate and turn off the stove.

Amy’s kitchen may be tiny, but it’s well-equipped.

Mostly for baking, though the cookware seems to be used regularly as well.

I’m more of a stir-fry guy, and anything fancier I usually have delivered, but my kitchen is top-notch.

I can’t wait for Amy’s reaction when she sees it.

Will she cook for me or bash my head in with a skillet? The mental image makes me chuckle.

There’s fire in my cupcake. Right now, it’s buried under fear of me and the results of Craig’s abuse, but it’s there. Maybe I should stop promising Amy sunlight and freedom, because she might use it to have my stupid ass arrested, but I can’t help myself. Her vulnerability gets to me.

My original plan was to keep her afraid, docile, until we reached my house, where I’ll have complete control over her movement and who she interacts with, but I hadn’t expected how much I’d hate her being scared of me. Not the fear itself—I’ve seen it countless times—but her fear.

I’ve heard screams and watched tears. Some of my targets deserved it.

Some…maybe not. But none of those frightened faces ever hit me like Amy’s does.

I’m still half-convinced magic is involved.

Maybe she’s a witch. Or maybe I’m losing it.

It doesn’t matter, because Amy is mine now.

If she runs, I’ll catch her. If she talks to the cops…

I’ll figure it out. Kidnapping her to a private island comes to mind.

And yes, I’m aware I sound completely unhinged.

Just as I’m about to check on her, Amy appears in the doorway, duffel bag in hand. She takes a tiny step back as I approach, and I hate that reflex. I force a smile. “Let me help with that.”

Her fingers linger on the strap, but she lets go. “I can carry it.”

“I’m sure you can. But let me be a gentleman.”

She snorts, then flinches like she expects to be punished.

It might be a reaction to seeing me kill someone, but I don’t think it’s just that.

I think that bastard Craig has something to do with how she shies away from touch.

He didn’t sound like a person who responds well to being laughed at.

Amy stiffens as I cup her cheek but doesn’t move away.

I soften my voice. “It’s okay, Amy. Laugh at me all you want.

I don’t mind.” She’s still on edge, so I change the subject.

“So, packed everything? Pajamas? Toothbrush? Favorite vibrator? ”

That gets me a reaction. She sputters and jerks back. “Y-you—what? No!”

I grin. “No vibrator, or no, you didn’t pack it?”

“You can’t ask me that!”

So she does have a favorite. Can’t wait to watch her use it. “I just did. Do you want to pack it yourself, or should I just grab everything from your bedside drawer?”

Her mouth drops open and I can’t help but imagine how that perfect O would look wrapped around my cock. “H-how do you even know— No. I’m not doing that. You can kill me or torture me—”

“Amy.” I let a hint of warning into my voice. “I told you that I won’t hurt you. But I will raid that drawer if you don’t do it.”

“But—”

“No buts. Will you go, or shall I?”

She’s back to glaring at me, but it’s better than fear. “Fine, you…” She stops herself before cursing me out. I wonder what she’s thinking. Probably something that starts with “sick fuck”.

“Make sure to grab all the toys!” I call after her. “I’ll be checking.”

Her muffled harrumph makes me chuckle. She’s going to be fun to have around. It’ll be a big change from the silence of my house, but a welcome one. Amy barely talks to me and I already enjoy sparring with her. I can’t wait to see her when she’s no longer scared.

She returns holding a small, wrapped bundle, which she quickly hides in her bag.

I don’t push. She’s still too skittish, her anger the only thing keeping her steady.

I need to make a good impression before that wears off.

Fortunately for me, her stomach growls, so I can dazzle her with my French toast. No pun intended.

She shakes her head as her eyes drift to the food I prepared. “That’s too much. We can’t eat all that.”

“Never underestimate me when it comes to food, cupcake. ”

I pull out her chair and she eyes me warily, but sits down. I serve her what I’ve made, nothing fancy, and it was technically her groceries, but I hope it shows I’m trying. “We can pack leftovers for the road.”

“Right. God forbid I leave perishables behind when ‘moving out’.” She doesn’t use air quotes, but I hear them.

I grin. “Exactly. Now dig in. We’ve got a long way home.”

Home. I’ve never called my place that before. My house has always been just a place where I sleep, eat, and train. Safe, sure, but never homey . Maybe it just needed the right person.

Amy sighs but reaches for a toast. I watch as she sniffs it, then takes a bite. A fleeting blissful expression crosses her face before she masks it. She likes it, even if she won’t admit it.

It’s stupid, but I’m proud. It’s like caveman mating rituals. Step one: find a mate. Step two: impress with food. Step three: drag her to your cave and ravish her. Now, if only my “cave” wasn’t six hundred miles away.