Page 43 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Wyatt

Even after a week of living together, I was still hesitant to leave Amy alone at home, but when I found out one of my targets was in town, I couldn’t resist.

It was the trucker who leered at Amy when we first stopped for gas last Saturday.

I paid a hacker to dig into his search history and found out that while the man wasn’t a sexual offender, he wasn’t a saint either, and that’s good enough for me.

I didn’t even kill him, which I consider a pinnacle of my prudence.

I merely messed with the brakes on his truck a little and, honestly, they were in a terrible shape even before I touched them.

With all the safety measures cars are stuffed with these days, he probably won’t die in the crash, which really makes me a saint, considering the creeper practically undressed my cupcake with his eyes.

Only I’m allowed to do that. He’s lucky I didn’t gouge out his fucking eyeballs.

After making sure my tracks are covered, the truck stop security footage wiped, and confirming there’s no one who could put me on the scene, I hop into my car and head straight home. Home. What a warm thought .

Anxiety niggles at the back of my mind as I finger the box in my pocket, the one with the ring inside.

The perfect wedding ring I’d had speed-delivered home and then, somehow, never gave to Amy.

I wanted to, so many times, but…fuck! I kill people for a living and I’m fucking good at it.

I don’t get nervous. Ever. Especially not interacting with women.

I kidnapped Amy, for fuck’s sake! I’m in control of every aspect of her life.

I have no damn reason to be nervous around her. And yet…

I know she wouldn’t refuse the ring just like she didn’t refuse to say “I do,” but how much of that was her wanting to be with me and how much was a simple fear of her captor?

It’s ridiculous to wish for Amy to want me, I know.

Real life doesn’t work like that. Real women don’t fall for their kidnappers.

Amy seemed to have warmed up to me in the past week, though.

Is that still fear? A calculated effort to get me to lower my guard?

Or could she really feel something positive towards me?

I don’t know, and since I don’t want more lies between us, I haven’t asked.

I also haven’t given her the ring because I don’t want to agonize over how much of her reaction is real and how much is fake, a pretense to keep herself safe from a creepy murderer holding her captive.

Instead, I’ve dedicated my every waking moment to a grand new project I call Making Amy Like Me.

Whatever Amy wants, even if she doesn’t say it out loud, she gets, including as many orgasms as she can handle.

That part’s not a hardship at all, especially since she’s incredibly responsive and grateful for every ounce of attention.

Seriously, she even thanks me for the orgasms, like making her come is something special, an unpleasant chore I undergo for her sake, when nothing, absolutely nothing, could be further from the truth.

I love making her come, having her thighs squeeze my head or my hips when she loses herself in the throes of passion, and listening to her little whimpers and moans.

While we’re in bed—or on the back porch lounger, or on the couch, or in the bathtub—I can be sure she’s not pretending anything, that her affection is genuine.

The rest of the time, however, I can’t help but wonder if it’s some hidden, bone-deep terror that is forcing her to smile at me, if she thinks anything less than a constant bright smile will get her bumped off.

Fuck! I’m not used to being so uncertain and indecisive. I’m also not used to having no idea what to do.

Time will tell, I guess. I don’t even have to wait long.

If I come home to a SWAT team waiting for me, that will be a pretty solid clue Amy isn’t really into me.

I’ve installed a monitoring software into her new phone that should stop her from calling the police, but it’s not infallible.

A determined person would surely find a creative way around the restriction.

I could have cut her off from the outside world completely, but I want as much normalcy for her as our situation allows, so she’s allowed to browse all the recipes she wants, read up on celebrity gossip, or chat with Kayla to her heart’s content, as long as it makes her happy and doesn’t put me in jail.

Pulling into a gas station, I quickly check on what my cupcake is doing but don’t find anything suspicious.

She’s playing music on her phone and occasionally replies to a text from Kayla.

The app didn’t mark any of the texts as problematic and a glance into the conversation thread reveals they’re mostly just memes.

I shouldn’t be reading Amy’s texts, I realize that. It’s an intrusion of privacy she wouldn’t appreciate, but fuck, what else is being a bad guy for if not for getting away with bad things? Still, it leaves a sliver of guilt behind. Another emotion I’m not familiar with.

I don’t feel guilty about taking Amy. I don’t.

Our meeting was fated, and I say that in all seriousness as someone who doesn’t believe in fate.

I’m grateful I found her hiding in Turbo’s dingy apartment but, maybe, our relationship would have worked better if she hadn’t seen the worst of me right at the very start.

Still, I’m doing my best to make it up to her.

Worship and spoil her, in every way I can.

It’s not just the material stuff, though Amy was excited about the new phone, clothes, and especially the various baking equipment.

At her request, I ensured she got promptly tested for all kinds of STIs known to mankind.

Fortunately, the test confirmed Craig hadn't given her a nasty farewell gift before his mysterious demise, and we were cleared to go back to unprotected sex.

Aside from fucking like bunnies, we’ve also been doing other couple things.

Normal things, like watching TV—she’s not on board with my theory about Maggie’s grandfather having an evil twin who killed him and stole his identity—or working in the garden together.

While I’d never force her into being my farmhand, Amy was adorably excited to get her hands dirty.

Then she made me cupcakes, and I slipped into a veritable sugar coma when I tried to eat them all straight from the oven.

Wanting to do other normal things with her, or at least what I assume is normal between partners, I text her.

Me

Just stopping for gas. I’ll be home in twenty

Cupcake

Perfect. Lunch will be ready.

She sends a picture of a pot full of stew simmering on the stove. I don’t have the slightest idea of what it is, but I’m sure it will be delicious. And even if it isn’t, I’ll eat it and pretend I loved it, because there’s no way I’m disparaging anything Amy makes for me.

Me

Looks delicious. You do know you don’t have to cook for me, though, right? I could have picked up something on the way.

Although I doubt it would taste as good as Amy-made food.

Cupcake

I know but I needed something to do and… *blushing face emoji* I kinda like the idea of cooking for my husband.

My heart does a weird flip inside of my chest, more unfamiliar emotions bubbling up to the surface. They’re all soft and warm and fluffy and I have no clue how to deal with them.

Me

I kinda like that idea too

Only after I hit send do I realize how fucking corny I sound. Jesus Christ! What is that woman doing to me?

Me

But it definitely won’t be the only thing I’m eating this afternoon *devil face emoji*

There. Perhaps I won’t look like a complete simp now.

God. Who am I kidding? When it comes to Amy, I am a complete simp. Groaning, I run a hand down my face. I’m so fucked.

As I put the gas hose back into the holder and head toward the driver’s seat, my phone once again vibrates in my pocket.

A smile tugs on the corners of my mouth as I unlock the screen, certain that an indignant, flustered response from Amy is waiting for me.

It’s not. The message is a photo from an unknown number and it takes me a few seconds to realize what I’m looking at.

Once I do, my stomach flips and I have to swallow down the bile threatening to rise, because I’m all for blood and gore, but what the actual fuck? !

In the photo, there’s a heart. The shape of it is made of actual human hearts, at least a dozen of them.

The floor beneath them glistens with spilled blood.

Inside of the heart, there are two severed hands, their fingers intertwined intimately.

One hand is larger and clearly masculine, and I’d hazard a guess that it had belonged to a white male about my age.

The other one daintier, more feminine. Its skin took on a grayish hue when the appendage lost circulation, but the hand is unmistakably that of a Black woman.

As if the meaning isn’t clear enough, there’s a large message above the heart in a looping script, the words made of intestines.

“CONGRATULATIONS, WYATT!” it says, a severed forearm and a singular eyeball artfully forming the exclamation mark.

More organs are arranged around the composition in what I assume are supposed to be flowery shapes.

The whole thing makes me want to retch, and not just because of all the gore.

It’s because of the hands. A young woman lost her hand—and probably her life too, if the amount of hearts is anything to go by—so that someone could tell me they know about Amy.

I never gave a damn about people going after me.

If they’re stupid enough to think they can get me, let them try.

I might die, but I won’t cower. Over the years, I’ve killed more than a few people who thought they could exact their revenge on me or earn their stripes by besting me.

None of them lived to reconsider their decisions.