25. Mila
MILA
I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited in my life.
“What are the rules?” Christian asks, buttoning up my coat like he’s my dad sending me off to my first day of school. It’s not even cold out, but because he’s taking me off the island, I don’t argue.
“You’ve asked me that three times.”
Cocking his head, he tugs me closer by the pockets of my coat. My heart lurches in my chest, my nipples brushing against the lace of my bra.
What has he turned me into?
“And now I’m asking you again.”
My tongue darts out to lick my lips, my mouth impossibly dry simply because of his presence. It’s been three days since I gave my first blow job, and I’ve found myself wanting to do it every day since, just because I like the way I can make him fall apart.
He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my gaze up to his, and every nerve ending in my body short circuits.
“Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll cancel the trip.”
My stomach sinks. I need off this island. Just for a few hours, so I can feel like a person and not just a very sexually satisfied captive.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about my tongue between your legs.”
I wasn’t thinking about that.
I definitely am now.
“That what you want?” he taunts, voice low and dark as sin. He steps even closer until I’m forced to fall back to the table, my ass resting on the edge. “You want to cancel our trip and let me spread you out on the bed? Make you come on my tongue until you can’t remember why you wanted to leave in the first place?”
A shiver ghosts up my spine when his thumb brushes over my racing pulse.
The asshole’s trying to con me into giving up my day of almost freedom.
“You fight dirty,” I grumble, and he chuckles darkly.
“Play dirty, too,” he smirks. “What are the rules?”
I let out a huff. “No running off by myself. If I see something suspicious, tell you. If I see anyone I recognize, tell you. If anyone asks, you’re Christian Smith, and I’m Mila Smith, your devoted wife of two years.” Had to roll my eyes at that one. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been kidnapped in an attempt to one-up you . . .”
“And?”
“And no smiling. No breathing. No blinking. No chewing gum . . . Did I miss anything?”
“Yeah.” He takes my jaw in his hand, forcing my gaze to his when I attempt to climb down from the table. “The moment you feel overwhelmed, tell me. We’ll come home.”
Home . . .
That’s actually kind of sweet.
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat, the heavy silence between us weighted with everything neither of us has been willing to discuss. How I shot him. How he left me.
We’ve both made mistakes. I actively make them every day when I don’t tell him the truth about that night and why I did what I did on the hospital roof.
I want to tell him. I want to share that with him, but . . . it’s hard. Pain is hard. It’s ugly and disgusting. It hurts , and we’ve both been hurt enough for a lifetime already.
Telling him now just rehashes old wounds that are finally starting to scab over. I’m not sure I’d survive ripping them open again.
“Talk to me, little devil. What’s on your mind?” he asks quietly, studying my eyes as if they’re a window to my thoughts.
God, I hope not. I’d hate for him to see how fucked-up my mind actually is.
“Do you . . . you don’t think anyone will recognize us . . . right?”
It’s been weighing on my mind since I woke up this morning, and he told me we were going into town over the French toast I’d made us for breakfast. The possibility of someone recognizing us.
I don’t know anything about the area, but Christian says the town is small. Filled with happy people who are none the wiser that we’re hiding out here instead of just keeping up with the lighthouse. I also haven’t been out since that single time he took me to Home of Hope, and that was just a there-and-back trip. I barely got to see the outdoors.
Christian reaches up, brushing a curl from the scar on my forehead, and my toes curl at the touch of his fingers against my skin. Then, like it always does, my anxiety rears its ugly head, and I can’t help but picture the day this will all come crashing down around me.
The day he sends me back to LA or wherever he plans to get rid of me.
“I’ve been checking around. I wouldn’t take you out if I thought there was even a possibility of someone finding us.”
I let out a shaky breath, nodding.
I can do this. It’s just a trip to town, right? Just a little trip to town with Christian, who may as well be four secret service men in one. Nothing bad will happen . . . right?
“ Mila. ”
I hadn’t even realized I was spacing out, imagining the bus stop in Arizona all over again.
“Sorry,” I breathe, wiping my clammy palms on my jeans.
“You’re safe.”
“Easy to say when you aren’t the one kidnapped.”
“Don’t think of it as kidnapped. Think of it as spontaneous relocation.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, a chuckle sliding through my teeth.
“Don’t think of us as fake husband and wife, then. Think of us as mutually hostile sexual partners.”
He cocks a brow, stepping back from me and holding out a hand to help me hop down from the table.
“So . . . husband and wife.”
“You’re impossible,” I say to the back of his head when he leads me toward the door.
“You’re beautiful.”
It’s just a store.
Just a store with people who sell store things.
“Mila.”
“What are we doing?”
Christian looks down at his giant T-shirt I’m wearing and my worn and tattered jeans.
“You need clothes, little devil.”
“I like wearing your clothes,” I murmur, and when something sinful passes through his gaze, I realize what I just said and have to explain. “You know . . . because they’re baggy and comfortable.”
He can see right through me, but he doesn’t argue it.
“We’ll just get some stuff so you can feel like you again.”
“I already feel like me.” It’s a lie. I don’t even know who me is anymore.
Christian calls my bluff on this one, shooting me a look that says as much.
“What are you worried about?” His tone softens, and when I look away, the asshole grips my chin and forces my gaze back to his.
“Nothing.”
Another lie.
Why can’t I stop lying?
“You’re safe, Mila,” he says, his tone conveying he’ll make sure of it. “I’ve checked this place out already.”
I saw my bottom lip between my teeth, looking back to the front of the store.
I haven’t been in a clothing store since before the attack.
“I have to try on clothes,” I admit finally on a breath, and it feels like a crater opens up in the center of my chest, stealing all the oxygen in my lungs.
“You will.”
He doesn’t get it. Tears sting in the backs of my eyes, and I shake my head, still looking at the front of the store. A few women walk in while I’m watching, and my throat threatens to close.
They look so . . . happy.
“Your scars are your biggest strength, little devil.” I turn to look at Christian just as he reaches up, catching the lone tear that trails down my cheek. Of course, he would know this is about the scars. Why wouldn’t he? He knows everything. “Use them.”
I stare at him for a beat, staring into his deep blue ocean eyes. Eyes I could look at for hours.
“I don’t know how,” I whisper, and it feels like dropping a weight off my chest to finally say that out loud.
“Would it make you feel better if I waited in the car? Let you go in alone.”
I would rather chew off each of my toenails individually.
“No-please—”
He silences me by pressing a finger to my lips.
“Then, I’ll be right there with you.”
Leaning across the center console, his hand slips around the back of my head, and he presses his lips to my forehead. It’s the most gentle he’s ever been, and the crack in my heart that was already bleeding for him widens to a fissure.
“Come on. We’ve got a whole day planned.”
Christian leads me out of the car and into the store, taking my hand in his when we enter. It’s loud and bright, full of colors and women laughing as they sort through clothes. Looking over at the mountain of a man beside me, the scar on his face, and the dangerous look in his eyes, I almost laugh. I would if I weren’t so damned nervous.
Christian does not belong here.
“How can we help you?” a young woman asks Christian, completely ignoring me.
That’s fine. I’m too busy having an existential crisis over looking at pants.
“We’re fine. Just looking.”
“Well, if you need anything, my name’s Callie, and I’d love to assist you.”
Okay, that’s too far. I mean, I’m right here. I literally had his dick in my mouth three days ago.
Callie, who just has to be one of the most beautiful brunettes I’ve ever seen, senses my displeasure and backs off, heading to the counter to do whatever homewreckers do.
Christian, on the other hand, just chuckles, shaking his head and tugging me along to the first aisle.
“I must say, I like this new side of you, little devil,” Christian says, stopping at the T-shirts.
“She was totally hitting on you. I’m supposed to be your wife,” I whisper, sticking close behind him while he looks at shirts.
Christian only smirks.
“Luckily for you, I prefer little blonde brats.”
My next retort is lost on the tip of my tongue. That’s not what I expected him to say.
Eat a bag of dicks, Callie.
He chuckles, motioning to the wall of clothing in front of me.
“Pick your poison. What do you like?”
“We established that I like your clothes.”
He shoots me another look. I’m getting a lot of those lately.
“We’ll start with shirts. Then jeans. And then whatever else you want.”
“You don’t need to buy me clothes, Christian.” It feels weird because I know there is no way in hell I’ll be paying for any of it. I had six dollars and a Chuckee Cheese token to my name when he “spontaneously relocated” me in the middle of the night.
“As I’ve said before, you are my responsibility to clothe, to feed—”
“And to protect,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know.”
Cocking a brow, he steps towards me. Then he does it again until I’m backed into the racks of shirts.
Leaning down, he lowers his lips right to my ear. “Don’t make me take you to the dressing room and spank your ass, little devil. I’m fully committed to finding you something you’ll feel comfortable in while we’re here.” Leaning back, he tucks my hair behind my ear, his gaze hot on my already burning cheeks. “I want you to see yourself the way I do.”
“What? Damaged goods?”
Anger flashes across his gaze before it’s quickly masked by a look of indifference.
Uh-oh. I shouldn’t have said that.
“I want ten of everything. Ten pairs of jeans. Ten T-shirts. Ten frilly shirts. Some shoes. Dresses. Whatever the fuck you need, I want ten of it.”
And then he steps back to peruse the aisle.
I leave Christian to quietly sulk in the T-shirt aisle and head off to find the “frilly shirts”, as he likes to call them. I managed to find a few and then a few pairs of jeans in my size. I pick out a new pair of sneakers, adding it all to the shopping basket I find along the way before I make my way back over to where he stands in the back of the store, a few T-shirts in his hand that he must have picked out for me.
“I don’t need a dress,” I tell him, hoping he’s not still pissed off at me for what I said.
When he doesn’t respond, I know he is.
Fuck.
“I’m . . . sorry. For being rude,” I murmur. His shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. I hate that I drove that wedge between us. Sometimes, when it all gets to be too much, I just . . . lash out. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I just—”
“Pick out a dress.”
My throat tightens, and I continue to stand there and stare at him.
Finally, he turns over his shoulder, cocking a brow at me.
“Why?”
“Because you need one.”
“For what?”
His gaze narrows.
“You’ll see.”
I don’t know if I like the sound of that.
“What kind of dress?”
He shrugs, looking back at the wall. Then, something catches his eye, and he pulls it from the rack. It’s a butter yellow sundress with little blue and white flowers on it.
“This.”
It’s beautiful. But . . . I haven’t worn a dress in over a year.
“Are you sure?”
He nods to the dressing rooms. “Go try it on.”
He takes the basket from my hands and hands me the dress, which he somehow managed to pick out in the perfect size.
It’s odd . . . being public with Christian. We’ve been living together up at the cottage for nearly a month now. Basically, husband and wife who almost hate each other with a really shitty sex life. But being in public almost seems too domestic. Like at any second, I’ll turn around, and it will all be gone.
Quietly, I make my way into a dressing room, closing the curtain tight behind me. Christian waits outside, and my cheeks flame, just knowing that he knows I’m changing in here.
See, I told you. Too domestic.
Slipping my clothes off, they feel tattered and trashy compared to all the new clothes we’ll be buying today. Not that I don’t love them. My old clothes have seen shit. They’ve lived a life on the run. Sleeping in busted motel rooms and dirty bus stations.
These new clothes could never compare.
“Everything okay?” Christian asks after five minutes.
No. Everything is not okay.
I’m stuck staring at my reflection in the mirror. This is the first time I’m really seeing myself in months. I’ve gotten thinner. My hair isn’t as shiny as it used to be. My curls are flat, and my skin is pale.
I look like death’s little sister with an affinity for brightly colored clothes.
Tears pool in my eyes, and it only takes a second before my entire emotional barrier crumbles around me.
Sinking to the carpeted floor, I pull my knees up to my chest and bury my face in my hands.
This sucks. It all sucks.
“Mila, I’m coming in.”
“Don—”
Too late. He pulls back the curtain and sees me crying on the floor like a child who didn’t get her way, and his shoulders stiffen. He closes the curtain behind us and drops to his haunches in front of me while I hastily try to turn the tears off like a broken faucet.
“Hey, look at me.”
He tugs my face to him, and I close my eyes, hating that he can see me at my most vulnerable. Hating that even though he’s the man who kidnapped me, he’s also the one who calms the storm ravaging my mind.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly, his voice gentle. “Don’t like the dress?”
“The dress is beautiful,” I whisper.
“Then, what is it? You want to go home?”
I shake my head. As overwhelming as it may be, I’m not ready to go back to the island. There’s still so much to see.
“Then what?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, scrubbing a hand over my eyes.
“Something.”
I chance a glance at him and find him studying me.
I wish he couldn’t see me. Especially now that I know what he’s seeing. The scared, translucent, damaged girl with lifeless eyes.
“You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”
Fuck. Why can’t I just cry in peace?
Oh, right. Because I’m a captive hiding out in a dressing room, crying because I feel ugly.
“I think I should put the dress back,” I breathe, and something flashes across his eyes, too quick for me to place.
“Why?”
I look away from him, rising to unsteady legs.
“I . . .” God, I can’t believe I’m telling him this. “It doesn’t look good on me.”
He fixes me with a hard stare, his jaw clenching and unclenching in the silence that follows.
“Come here.”
The dressing room is only a few feet wide as it is long, but I close the minuscule distance between us hesitantly.
In a rush, he takes me by the arms, forcing me to turn around and face the mirror. Face myself head-on.
“Please stop,” I whisper, wishing with everything I have that the mirror in front of me would disappear.
“Stand there.”
Christian steps behind me, his fingers slipping down the goosebumps on my arms while he watches me over my head.
“What are we doing?” I ask when he zips the dress up in the back.
“Look in the mirror, Mila.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, meeting my own gaze. I want to look away as fresh tears burn behind my eyes, but when I try, he reaches around and takes my chin, forcing my eyes forward.
Lowering his voice, he drops his lips to my ear, pulling my back into his front.
“I’m going to show you what I see.”
I shiver from the warmth of his breath against the side of my neck when he lingers, his stubble against my skin bringing goosebumps to the surface. His lips skate down the side of my neck, over my racing pulse point, to my shoulder.
His hands slip along my stomach as he works his way down. My eyes flutter when he reaches the hem, his thumbs dragging over the material of my panties.
My heartbeat quickens, my head falling back to rest against his shoulder when one hand comes up to grip my throat while the other dips inside the waistband of my panties.
“We’re in public,” I breathe, biting back a moan when his fingers dip inside me.
He presses his lips to the side of my face, eyes glinting savagely in the mirror when they meet mine.
“Does that scare you, little devil?” he rasps, voice low and quiet. He draws his finger through my folds, then moves higher, circling my clit.
I bite my lip, a gasp threatening to tear free and grab hold of his wrist.
“Does it haunt you what you do to me? Knowing my cock’s hard against your ass, begging to slip inside you? That I stroke myself in the shower every morning because all I can think about is how pretty you’d look riding my cock?”
“Christian,” I breathe, unable to look away with what he’s doing to me.
He steps closer to the mirror until we’re nearly face to face with our reflections, his other arm wrapping around the front of my shoulders to band my arms to my chest.
“Look at yourself, Mila. See what I see, yet?”
“What?” I pant, my thighs quivering on either side of his hand. Heat slips into my bloodstream, and my hips move on their own volition, rocking against his hand.
“See the blush in your cheeks? The brightness in those pretty fucking eyes? How bad you want to come from my fingers. Feel what you fucking do to me,” he rasps, nipping the shell of my ear. “The prettiest fucking girl I’ve ever seen.”
Rocking his hips into me in slow, even rolls, I feel his erection digging into the small of my back.
“Do you know how fucking hard it is to be the good guy? To not fuck you when you ask me to? Take this slow with you?” He changes the angles of our hips, bending me forward slightly until I’m forced to catch myself with my hands on the mirror.
This new angle forces me to meet my own gaze. There are sparks hidden in the gray depths of my irises. My cheeks are pink and flushed, my hair falling around me in small ringlets. My chest heaves with each breath, my body drawn tight as he continues to swirl his fingers around my clit.
“I’m going to come,” I whisper, hoping to God no one out in the store can hear us over the chatter and the loud music.
“Are you?” he drawls, his cock hitting the curve of my ass when he rolls against me. I nod my head, desperate for release, and he takes me right to the edge.
Then, he removes his fingers.
I gawk at him in the mirror, and he places a kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering.
“Feel what it feels like to be me, sweetheart? To want something so fucking badly but know you have to wait?”
“You’re-you’re—” I sputter, the orgasm fading second by second, leaving behind an achiness that I know only he can relieve.
Stepping back, he releases me, tugging my dress down over my hips and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, alive with wicked amusement.
“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, and my cheeks flame. “You’ll get what you want, sweetheart. Just not here.”
Stepping away from me completely, he opens the curtain and grabs the basket.
“And the dress stays on. I like it.”
I watch him walk off, gawking.
It takes a minute before I turn to follow him before I pause, looking at myself in the mirror.
A girl stares back at me. Broken, damaged, and pale . . .
But also a woman with bright, shining eyes. With soft ringlet curls. A healthy blush on her cheeks.
You’re the prettiest fucking girl I’ve ever seen.
I just hope someday, I can agree with him.