This entire place would go for millions in downtown Boston. But out here in the no-man’s-land of the warehouse district, not so much I guess.
Maybe you have to be a murdering kidnapper to live out here.
“In you go.”
I pad into the bathroom and turn, but his hand is on the door.
“Are you serious?”
“You really think I’m going to let you put a closed, lockable door between you and me?”
“I have to pee.”
“I gathered that. Go ahead.”
I stare at him. “I’m not going to with you watching me.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I can’t.”
“You were all set to pee on my kitchen stool a second ago.”
My face burns as I stare at him. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I’ll look away, but this door is staying open.”
I ball my hands into fists, planting myself in front of him.
“Tick tock, princess.”
I groan, my face going bright red. “You are such an asshole.”
“Sticks and stones, sweetheart.”
He turns away, his muscled arm reaching out behind him and holding the door open. I glance at him once more, gritting my teeth and groaning before I shuffle to the toilet. I slip my panties down to my knees and squat.
Nothing.
I have to pee like crazy, but I’m sure as hell not going to with him just standing there.
I tense up, trying, but nothing happens.
“You need me to run some water or something?”
I glare at the back of his head.
“I could play some rain sounds on the stereo syst-”
“Look could you maybe just not talk?”
He chuckles.
Still nothing.
“Tinkle tinkle, little star.”
“Oh my God will you please shut up?! Can you just cover your ears or something?”
Connor laughs, tilting one ear against a shoulder and covering the other with his free hand.
I’m sure he’s still listening, but it helps, and finally - mercifully - I can pee.
I wipe and pull my panties back up when I’m done. Hungover me eyes his gorgeous tub and shower, wishing like crazy I could get cleaned up. I wash my hands, eyeing the way everything is so perfectly neat, organized, and aligned. Hell, his toothbrush is at a right freaking angle, for God’s sake.
I wonder again about the probability of him having a plastic-lined kill room.
“There we go, just like a big girl.”
I glare at his smug face in the mirror. “Are you this much of a prick to all the girls you kidnap and tie up?”
“Only my favorite ones.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon in mostly silence, me sitting on his bed reading the book from my bag, and him off to the other side of the loft. Periodically, I can feel him looking at me, making me shiver, but I ignore it.
I ignore that, and the fact that even now, even as his prisoner, I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his lips on mine. Or his hands on me.
Or the way his eyes glinted into mine - so full of danger and forbidden temptation.
I lose my place on the page as I take a shaky breath, trying to clear my throat.
This has to be the beginnings of Stockholm syndrome, and I have to get the hell out of here before it gets worse.
Chapter Eleven
Connor
I’m brooding on my couch later, thumbing through my phone. I’m trying to coordinate shit with people and trying to get abreast of this whole Ukrainian thing, and I hate that I’m cooped up here instead of out there with the rest of the Saints figuring this out.
I’m also having a hard time concentrating on anything because my head’s all over the damn place.
All over the damn place, but mostly just on her.
I’ve ignored that little voice in my head all day, and all last night. I’ve ignored it while I ignored all my own rules and warnings and bantered back and forth with her, like this is some sort of office flirtation and not her being my goddamn prisoner.
I’m ignoring it now, glancing up to see her curled up on my bed reading a book she had in her purse. And if I needed any more reason to know I was right about her being out of place in that bar, with the flirty skirt and the boots and the leather jacket?
Yeah, it’s the fact that she had a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in her fucking handbag.
Sorry, but genuinely grungy, edgy girls do not carry eighteenth century English literature in their bags.
Regardless, I’m not playing this right, and I know it. I’m getting too close, and being too casual, and too jokey, and too…shit, too flirty with her. And this is not the girl to be doing any of those things with. She’s too sweet, even trying to act tough like she’s doing. She’s too innocent - too young.
And for all the excuses or rationalizations I want to make, none of that matters or means shit. Because at the heart of it, there’s one pretty big glaring reason why I shouldn’t be playing this so easy and loose.