15. Mila
MILA
I never thought the simple sound of a door closing would send a shiver down my spine until this very moment.
I’ve been cooking—a real meal. I wanted to do something nice for Christian since he took care of me. I mean, not that he doesn’t have to, he literally kidnapped me . . . I just know as far as captivity goes, this situation could be worse.
And . . . maybe I also wanted to find a bit of common ground between us.
“You’ve been busy,” he murmurs from behind me, and a shiver of awareness slips up my spine.
My stomach twists uncomfortably.
“I . . . thought you might be hungry.”
Turning around, I find him leaning against the door. His eyes sweep over my bare toes, up my legs covered in his sweats, and to another one of his T-shirts I’m wearing. Something dark flashes across his gaze before that look of indifference slides into place, but I saw it.
Maybe I mean something more to him than he’s willing to let on. For some reason, the thought makes my heart flutter.
Idiot.
“Looks good,” he says, stepping into the kitchen and going to the liquor cabinet on the wall. He gets out a decorated crystal lowball glass and a wine glass before filling both while I turn away to hide the blush on my cheeks. By the time I’m setting our plates on the table, he’s returning with our drinks, and I’m actually grateful for the wine he offers me.
When we sit at the table on opposite sides, a silence falls over the room that’s impossible to ignore.
“Did you . . . get everything you needed?” I ask, taking a bite of chicken even though I can’t taste it over the nerves fluttering in my stomach.
“You could say that,” he murmurs, taking a bite while I watch him. If it’s awful, he doesn’t show it.
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us too engrossed in our own thoughts to pay attention to each other. At least, I am.
“Spit it out, Mila.”
I take a drink of the wine, and I’m not surprised that it’s delicious. Seems like everything he gives me is laced with shit that makes me never want to leave.
Ex cept for that awful beef stew.
“Are . . . are you going to kill me?”
He doesn’t move, save for the one minuscule tick in his jaw.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath, sitting back in his chair. He grabs his whiskey, downing the glass, and pours a second.
“It’s just that . . . If you do, could you not tell my mother?”
“Mila,” he mutters gruffly.
“No, this is important.”
“No, the fuck it’s not. I’m not going to kill you.”
Tears well in my eyes, but they don’t fall . . . for once.
That’s not the answer I thought I was going to receive.
“So, what are you going to do to me, then?”
He stares at me long and hard, like he’s contemplating throwing me off the cliff out behind the cottage. Maybe it would be for the best. Let me float to Timbuktu, where I can live out my days with all the other degenerate runaways.
“Why all the questions?”
“Why all the evasive non-answers?”
“Because regardless of what you think about it, you’re stuck here.”
“Yeah, making friends with the dust bunnies and the giant spiders,” I grumble, rolling my eyes.
“Keep rolling your eyes at me,” he warns, his voice gruff. “See what happens.”
“Fine,” I say, stabbing a potato a little too hard because I’m picturing his head instead. “We’ll move on. What is your job?”
“I’m not answering any more of your useless questions.”
I swear to God.
“Then, I’ll starve myself until you do.”
Just to get my point across, I shove my plate back from me.
He wants to be stubborn? He will soon find out I wrote the fucking book on stubbornness.
“Mila, eat the fucking food.”
I just stare at him.
“You’re acting like a child.”
Cue more staring.
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. I’m happy to know I’m getting under his skin. Serves the asshole right. “Fine. I worked for the FBI.”
“FBI? So, you were undercover like Logan?” Last year, my new brother-in-law went undercover to bring my stepfather down. He also fell in love with my sister in the process, but in my opinion, he never stood a chance. I saw the way he looked at her. Like she was the only woman to ever walk the surface of this planet.
He was doomed from the start.
“I was,” Christian says, his tone clipped.
“Why did it end?”
“Because I said it did.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“And yet, it’s the only one you’re going to get.”
I almost roll my eyes, then think better of it.
“So, you came to work for Marcus. Were you and Logan working together or something?”
“Something like that.”
If I were a brave woman—which I’m not—I would kick him in the shin.
“How can you afford all this if you only worked for the FBI? Surely, they don’t pay enough.”
His jaw tightens, and he pushes his empty plate across the table. Something about his expression seems grim. “You aren’t the only one who comes for a wealthy family, Mila.”
“What does your family do?”
His shoulders tense. “They own a lodge.”
“So, a former FBI agent with a rich family, troubled past, and mysterious island in the middle of nowhere. You sound like Batman.”
I’m actually surprised by the slight hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Batman is a children’s concept.”
“Hardly. Have you seen half of those comics?”
“Has Batman ever killed another man?”
I freeze, the wine in my mouth slipping down my throat when I hold his stare.
I let out a deep breath. “I’m sure he has.”
“And if I told you I’d killed people?”
“Did they deserve it?”
He shrugs. “Suppose they did.”
I let out a breath through my teeth, reaching for my wine.
“Then, I’d say it makes you a good guy. You know, when you’re not kidnapping people.”
Christian’s gaze darkens. “I’m not a good guy, Mila.”
“Murder doesn’t make you bad, Christian. Not when it’s against those who have done far worse.”
“And what would you say is worse than murder, little devil? Isn’t it the ultimate sin?”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, that night of all things slipping through my mind.
“I don’t believe in sin,” I admit, studying the dark purple hue of the liquid in my glass so I don’t have to look at him and feel the full weight of his stare. “Sin implies you can be forgiven. Some people don’t deserve that.”
“And the man who attacked you . . .” My spine stiffens. “What would you say he deserves?”
“For me?” I ask honestly and he waits for my answer. “I would say death. For someone else? Say a little girl kidnapped from her mother? I’d say death is too kind for him.” Finally, I force myself to meet his gaze. “What would you do if he came across your path?”
He watches me, gaze unreadable, and for a moment, I don’t think he’s going to tell me. Why would he? It’s a hypothetical situation, anyway, but he’s already determined I’m not strong enough for his world.
“I’d start by taking his hands,” he murmurs, shaking me from the fog. “I’d slice off each of his fingers. Then, each of his toes, one by one, so he could feel every second of it. Then, I’d pull his teeth. I’d make it hurt. It would be bloody.” He pauses as if he’s formulating the plan as he speaks. “I’d make sure he cried for his mother until the bitter end because it would be music to my ears while I removed his arms and legs until he was nothing but a torso and head. And once I was finished with him . . . I’d leave him alive, out in the middle of nowhere in the heat of the day, so the birds could eat him while he begged for mercy with every ounce of energy.”
My heart flutters in my chest, sickness pooling in my stomach, but it’s not for what he said.
It’s because I don’t feel a shred of remorse for that man.
That evil, awful man deserves all of that and more.
Christian raises his glass to his lips, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one drink. “So you tell me, little devil . . . does my punishment count as a sin?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He stares at me for a second longer, like he’s trying to determine if I’m lying, but I’m not.
“If I ask you something, will you answer it?”
“Haven’t I answered all your questions thus far?”
Save for one . . .
“Yes.”
“Then ask.”
“Promise to be honest with me?”
I sound like a fool, asking a man who lied to tell me the truth, but at this point, I’m out of options. He stares at me for a moment as if he’s going to say no, but finally, he nods.
“Yes.”
“It’s about . . . us.”
My cheeks burn bright under his gaze as he sits there, unmoving, like someone jammed a rod down his spine.
His jaw feathers, eyes flicking over my face as if he’s gauging my reaction.
“What’s your question?”
“Was it all a lie?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking it was.”
What the hell does that even mean?
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Then, why did you leave?”
He doesn’t seem to like that because his gaze narrows, but he doesn’t say anything.
A heaviness settles in the air between us. The thick silence makes it hard to breathe.
After the beach, he took me home, laid down with me until I fell asleep like he always did, but this time was different. He was different.
I never thought that when I woke up in the morning, he’d be gone.
Now that I’ve asked the question, I’m not sure I even want to know the answer. Wouldn’t it be easier to just ignore the past and accept that those two people who were “in love” are no longer here?
“Why did you shoot me?”
My stomach drops to my toes.
“You said I could ask a question.”
“I never said I’d answer.”
“I have a right to know.” I grit my teeth, smacking my hand on the top of the table at the rush of anger that surges through me. I’m sick and tired of everyone hiding things from me. “I waited for you for three months and you never called. Never showed. You completely ghosted me.”
I can stop the tears welling in my eyes any more than I can stop the pain that threatens to rip me in half.
“Fine,” he murmurs, so dark a shiver runs down my spine. When I meet his gaze, it burns . “You want to know what happened?”
“Yeah,” I stutter, forcing my chin up. “I do.”
He chuckles darkly, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Using you to get closer to Parker was the easiest route. You were starving for attention. You needed someone to make you feel safe. Wanted. I played the part because it got me closer to the target, and you got a little piece of yourself you felt was missing.”
Something sickening slips through my veins. A bitter embarrassment that I ever thought he cared. Everything I’ve always silently thought to myself after he left. Every time I blamed myself for his departure . . . it’s all true.
“Satisfied?” he asks, his chair dragging against the floor with a screech as he gets up, slamming the front door behind him without another look back.
“Chris-tian.”
“That’s my girl,” he purrs, the sound muffled by my thighs on either side of his head. His tongue slips through my folds, milking the orgasm that sent electric zaps down my spine. His hands hold my hips, his eyes darkly amused while he watches me try to catch my breath.
It’s been three months of this . . . torture.
Every day, it’s the same. He comes to my room, catches me in the pool house, when we’re alone in the car together . . . He always makes me come. Whether it’s from his tongue or his fingers, it always ends with me gasping out his name and a panting wet mess before he kisses me until my lips are sore.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he fucks me.
Christian’s never let me touch him. Any time I try to wrap my hand around his cock and push him past the boundaries he’s set for us, he breaks away, and the moment is over.
I can’t help but feel like something is wrong with me because he never lets it go further than just my orgasm.
Still, as one-sided as this is, it never stops me from allowing him to do it again.
“Fuck, look how pretty you are,” he groans, the deep rumble slipping through my body and going right to my core.
Slipping back up my body, his lips capture mine, kissing me deeply. I whimper into his mouth, wrapping my arms around him when he settles back into the pillows beside me.
“It’s raining,” I point out, still breathless. He looks to the open hatch in the back of the SUV, watching the steady fall of the raindrops outside.
“I like the rain,” he murmurs, his arm under my head. He pulls me closer to him, my legs intertwined with his, and presses his lips to my forehead.
“What about thunder?”
He pulls back, deep blue gaze searching mine. He’s turned the back of the SUV into a makeshift bed, complete with blankets and pillows.
The back is open, overlooking the valley below as March brings about warmer weather.
Honestly, looking up at him, I find I never want to leave. If I could freeze time and live in just this moment, I would.
“Storms are the earth’s way of cleansing itself.” He shrugs. “That’s what my mother used to say.” He pauses, studying my face. For what, I don’t know. “What’s on your mind, little devil?”
I suck in a deep breath, mulling the answer over in my head. “Just wondering when all this is going to end.”
“Your stepfather?”
“Us.”
He’s quiet, and something slips across his gaze. Before I can read his expression, it’s gone.
To say I’ve fallen in love with Christian Cross is an understatement. I’m obsessed with him. The darkness in his gaze and the way it sends shivers down my spine. The way he kisses me, as if he’s dying to taste me and he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t. How he laughs and how his hand feels in mine. His rough callouses against my home manicure.
“You need to forget about me, little devil.”
Forget? That’s impossible. I know as well as he does that a part of me will always crave him. Need him with every fiber of my being.
Right person, wrong lifetime.
Oddly, the thought makes my chest ache.
Before he can see the tears burning in the backs of my eyes, I close the distance between us, kissing him. He lets me, his hand sliding up to the back of my head to pull me closer. I love his roughness, as if he’s barely holding on by a thread. I love how much bigger he is than me when he covers my body with his, careful not to put all his weight on me. Like I’m breakable, but his to break.
“Christian,” I breathe against his lips, a fire scorching through my veins. “I want you.”
“Mila,” he warns, his voice rough and his hands tightening in my hair. He’s told me no a thousand times. What’s one more?
“Please,” I breathe, my hand slipping between our bodies. I watch his reaction when I fist his hard cock through his jeans. His eyes grow dark, his jaw feathering, and I swear I feel it growing in my hand.
His fingers tighten in my hair, roughly dragging my head back and his gaze searches mine.
“I’m not the man for you, Mila.”
You’re the only man for me.
“Please, Christian?” I try again, my voice so soft, it’s barely legible over the rain pounding the roof over our heads. “I want it to be you.”
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath when I tease him, reaching for the button on his jeans. He places his hand over mine, but he doesn’t stop me when I pop it through the loop.
I have no idea what I’m doing, but when I lower his zipper and reach inside his boxers, running my fingers over the smooth skin of his erection, he inhales sharply, his eyes as dark as night.
While I’ve got him compliant, I lean forward, despite the bites of pain in my scalp from his fingers, and press my lips to his. I don’t even know if he knows how hard he’s gripping the roots of my hair, but the pain stirs me on. I kiss him gently, and he doesn’t kiss me back when I wrap my fist around him, stroking him slowly from root to tip.
I’ve never had a dick in my hands before, but judging by how much is left that my hand can’t cover, Christian’s size is impressive. My mouth waters when I press my lips back to his, my tongue darting out to lick the seam between his lips. Wetness leaks from the head of his cock, and I stroke him again, needing to know that he feels the same way I do. That I’m not going insane on my own.
“Fuck, Mila,” he grits, his hand catching mine and stilling my fingers. He leans his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged, and I don’t move, my hand still wrapped around his cock. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, little devil.”
“I do.” I nod against him, swallowing past the lump in my throat. For months, he’s made me come over and over until my legs are shaking, and I’m passing out in his arms. For months, I’ve begged for him, needing to feel him without any barriers, and he’s denied me. If he didn’t keep showing up in my room every night, I’d think he just wasn’t that into me, but he keeps coming back, and I keep allowing it.
“You’re going to hate me when this is done.”
Unfortunately, I don’t think I could ever hate him.
“No.”
“Why me, Mila?” he rasps, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “I can’t give you what you deserve.”
I shake my head, letting out a shaky breath. I slip my hand out of his jeans and up the hard ridges of his abs under his shirt. I want to feel him. Soak in his warmth and never leave the back of this Suburban.
“Because it’s always been you,” I breathe. I don’t want anyone else. It has to be him.
My fingers reach his chest, and his heart beats fast under my fingers. I would smile, but I’m too enraptured with him to even move. The way he holds me like he can’t bear to lose me. The way his eyes consume me, devouring me until I’m stripped bare of all my secrets.
I can see him at war with himself. Fighting with whatever demons he’s been running from. I want to take them away. Make him feel what I feel.
Leaning into him, I press my lips against his again, testing the waters. His fingers tighten in my hair, and he tugs me harder against him until there’s not an inch of space between our bodies. He kisses me like a man starved, a deep groan traveling up his throat.
“You’re going to fucking kill me.”
“Holy shit,” I gasp, shooting up in bed. I clutch my hand to my chest, my heart racing underneath my fingers, and look around.
Christian’s. I’m at the cottage.
That fucking explains it.
It’s with some annoyance, I realize I’m incredibly hot . . . and turned on.
My nipples strain against my tank top, my core is throbbing, and my skin is coated in a light sheen of perspiration.
Just like it would be if he were here.
Am I that far gone that I’m having sex dreams of the man who kidnapped me now?
God, Mila. Give it a rest.
I glance at the clock. Three in the morning.
Figures I’d have a sex dream about Christian Cross during the witching hour.
“I need a glass of water,” I grumble, angry at my body for having the female version of a hard-on for a man who not only kidnapped me but plans to use me in his little revenge plot. Which, might I add, he hasn’t told me who or what he’s getting revenge on.
I listen intently for any signs that he may be home, only hearing the soft drip of the kitchen faucet before I tug on one of his flannels, which is basically a robe.
Padding quietly down the stairs, I make my way toward the kitchen, passing through the living room on my way.
Only I stop short the moment I see him.
Christian must have fallen asleep when he came back inside. I don’t know where he went, but I stayed awake until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer before conceding defeat and going to bed.
Now, I’m regretting it because he’s passed out on the couch, no shirt on and glorious abs on display for everyone to see.
Well, really, just me. The creepy night stalker watching him sleep.
I pause, watching the even rise and fall of his chest. I had thought seeing him sleeping would make him look less . . . devastating.
Now, I can see, I was wrong.
The hard muscles of his abs and chest move with each breath, making the tattoos on his skin look like they’re alive. CROSS is written in big, bold letters across his chest. An intricate clock tower design over his abs, and right above it, the bullet I’d lodged in his shoulder.
It’s the three letters— MRC —with the date of November eighth a year and a half ago, on his chest that cause my heart to fall to my stomach.
“It’s rude to stare.”
I let out a squeak, spilling water down the front of my white tank top when Christian’s eyes open and zero in on the now see-through material.
Great job, Mila. You’re a one-woman wet T-shirt contest.
“I wasn’t staring.” I totally was. I tug my flannel-turned robe tighter around myself, but it’s thin, so the material instantly gets wet, making it look like my nipples are leaking.
I hate it here.
“I had a nightmare, and I needed a drink.”
Quickly regretting that decision.
“About what?”
I swallow hard past the lump in my throat.
“Nothing.”
Before he can say anything else and my skin can melt off from the embarrassment because I can’t stop picturing him between my legs, I make a mad dash to the bedroom, wet nipples and water in hand, and hide out under the covers.
My God . . . living under Christian Cross’s roof is turning out to be more complicated than I thought.
I need to get out of here.