12. Underwear #2
“Shit. No. I didn’t mean that. Of course that counts.
No way in fucking hell am I saying what you went through…
baby, that counts only in that I understand the trauma they put you through.
And I took care of who I could. I’ll make all of them pay for what they did to you…
but when I think about you, I think of you being mine and only mine.
That’s what I mean, cupcake. No one else will ever touch you with love and affection and need the way that I will. ”
For a moment, I let his earnest words wash over me. It’s hard, I think. It’s so much easier to dismiss him when it seems like he’s kidding around. But when he sounds dead serious? It’s impossible to brush him off.
He means it. I don’t know why he does, or what made him wake up one morning and decide that I have to be his, but he did, and I have to remember that.
Members of the Order are entitled as fuck.
They’re known as the Owed for a reason. They believe they can get everything they want, and for some reason, Connor wants me.
It’s so much easier to pretend he doesn’t when he’s goofing off. Maybe it’ll work the same way for me if I treat the whole situation like it hasn’t destroyed me.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I pick up the pen.
Cupcake =(
Connor chuckles under his breath, the relief evident in the sound. “I guess it’s a no on ‘cupcake’ then, huh?”
God damn it. How does he do that? How does he make my stomach twitch in disgust and violence one second, then turn that smile on me and the twinge in my belly means something totally different?
I shake my head.
“Don’t worry. I’m still working on finding the perfect nickname for you. Unless you’ll accept Haven Heyward as your new name?”
I scoff, and his chuckle becomes an amused laugh. “Yes. Knew I was pushing my luck, but I had to try.”
No. He didn’t. He really didn’t…
“Okay. Now that we both know where we stand, what can I do to make this easier for you? I’ll do anything.” He pauses. “Anything but let you go, that is.”
Yes. I think I’m finally beginning to understand that.
Anything, huh? Think, Haven. Sometime during the last six weeks, Connor Heyward has lost his fucking mind.
He’s gone from my rescuer to my would-be savior and definite captor.
He won’t let up until I eat, he’s trapped me in the finished basement of his house—the entire floor of his home set up for something just like this—and he’s giving me carte blanche to ask for almost anything.
He’s an Owed from a founding family. In Harmony Heights, I could demand the world, and he’d find a way to give it to me because no one in this town will tell him no.
No one, it seems, but me.
Not that that will do much. Connor, like the rest of the Heirs, is used to getting what he wants. What he believes he’s owed. I have no idea why, but he’s decided he wants me. And me?
I want—
Underwear
Connor flat-out laughs at what I scrawled in cursive on the page. It’s this delightful, unhinged burst of laughter that does something strange to my insides. I’m not afraid of it, just like I’m not afraid of him. There’s no cruelty to the sound. It’s more like he’s found me amusing, and I’m glad.
Maybe he’ll underestimate me.
Maybe he’ll give me one more chance to get the hell out of here.
One thing for sure? I’m not staying. I can’t.
Maybe if it was anyone other than Connor Heyward who was trying to ‘fix’ me, I might’ve given in and let them take responsibility for how messed-up Winter and his bastards made me.
But it is Connor, and no matter what, I refuse to let another man destroy me.
And of them all, it’s this one who has the power to hurt me the most.
I asked for underwear. Not only would I feel a whole lot less vulnerable if I were able to cover up with more than just one of Connor’s old t-shirts, but I have a plan.
It starts with panties, it leads to finding the strength to wear real clothes of my own again instead of hiding in his oversized tees, and ends with a pair of shoes that will help me keep from hurting my feet anymore when I attempt my next breakout.
Because I have no doubt in my mind that there will be one. Despite his insane idea that I can stay with him forever, the second he slips up, the moment I can sneak out, I’m gone, and he’ll be lucky if I don’t press charges against him for unlawful confinement…
I’ve been watching him. While he’s watching me, I’m paying attention to him.
He spends his days with me in the basement, heading upstairs when he decides it’s time to go to bed.
I sleep in my sanctuary, where the peace of knowing I can lock Connor out allows me to actually fall asleep and stay asleep.
He’s almost always awake and working in the small kitchenette when I step foot out of the panic room the next morning.
He doesn’t often leave, and when he does, it’s never for long—and he almost always returns with another package he ordered.
For the most part, it’s food. He makes sure I have my preferred toiletries in the bathroom down here, and if he never asks me what I use, I try not to dwell too closely on how he knows which face wash is my favorite brand.
I guess I expected that Connor would throw more money my way, buying me underwear when I asked for it.
That’s not what happens. Not really.
He made a phone call. I’m not sure who exactly he reached out to since he disappeared upstairs to talk to them, locking me downstairs again.
When I drew a line of question marks on a notebook page after he returned, he just smiled and told me not to worry about it.
Later that day, he got a call, ran back upstairs, and was only gone long enough for me to tiptoe behind him and check to see if he forgot to lock the basement door behind him.
He hasn’t yet, but I keep on holding out hope that he will…
Within ten minutes, he’s returned, and he comes down with a black duffel bag imprinted with the same Order logo that’s branded on Connor’s palm, plus a brown box. With a big grin, he places them both in front of me.
“Bas got into your apartment,” he says by way of explanation. “I gave him a list of what to grab. He promised me he got it all and put it in there.”
Bas. Sebastien. Good choice. Of all the Heirs, he’s the one I can’t stand the least. If someone had to root through my stuff, it’s better that it was him rather than Adrian or Desmond.
Especially since Connor did something more than just get me clothes: he confirmed that my apartment is still my apartment. It has my stuff in it, and though I’m surprised he knew where I lived, when I open the duffel and go through the clothes, they’re definitely mine.
I pull out the oversized maroon hoodie that I liked to wear when I was watching TV and eating a pint of rocky road ice cream. It’s a totally different shade of purple than my volunteer shirt so I don’t freak out to see it—
“That’s one of your favorites,” Connor says. “The basement is chilly, and I made sure Bas grabbed that one.”
It is my favorite. Just like how red delicious apples are my favorite, and the television show he put on for background noise this morning is one of my comfort shows…
My fingers are trembling. I set the hoodie aside, grabbing a grey blouse out next.
“I like that one. It makes your eyes pop.” Connor pauses. “Makes your tits look pretty good, too, gorgeous.”
I make a mental note to never wear that shirt in front of him.
In fact, I set aside the other three shirts—all form-fitting and cropped and unlike what an Offering wears…
unless she’s in the privacy of her own home—that Bas packed in this bag.
He did put in a basic black tee, a pair of dark denim jeans, two pairs of leggings—heather grey and navy blue, but not the black ones—as well as another one of my favorite large hoodies.
I have enough clothes to hopefully last me until I can figure out how to get back to my apartment (and change the fucking locks so that Sebastien—and Connor—can’t get in again). What I don’t have, though?
Underwear.
Because I was raised to have manners, and trained to be respectful of the Owed…
except for the Heirs these days… I do give him a tight-lipped smile to show my thanks.
I wanted to cover up. I wanted to wear something other than one of Connor’s t-shirts.
Yes, I wanted underwear, but at least I have pants.
And that’s when Connor says, “Don’t forget the box.”
The box?
Dropping to a crouch, Connor grabs the box. Within seconds, he has his pocketknife out and open. He slices through the tape on this package, then sets it on the floor, nudging it toward me.
I give him a curious look.
He nods. “Go on. That’s yours, too, Haven, love.”
Love? No. Not ‘love’.
Just Haven.