Chapter 7 #2
“Are you stalking me?”
“I’m invested.”
My brows shot up as I scanned the room once more.
Grant was a tattoo artist, and had a knack for guns, although I was much better.
He was also shirtless right now, which made me realize how cut his body was and how much ink he used on himself.
But that was about all I knew. All I could remember knowing, at least.
But, me? I was rich. Filthy rich. Marrying another filthy rich man. The kind of money I had was the kind people did crazy things for. Very fucking crazy things.
“You were never going to take me back to my hotel, were you?”
“Nope.”
“Did you do something more to me last night?”
His eyes darkened. “You didn’t ask or tell me to, so no. I wouldn’t touch you unless you wanted me to. Consent is important to me.”
A kidnapper with a conscience. Yet, that conscience toed right on past cheating and kidnapping without a hitch.
Oh, and drugging. He’d touched me before—to what extent, I had no clue—so maybe he’d had my consent before.
Had I asked him to touch me? Told him to touch me?
Who was to say he wasn’t also a liar? My head started to spin all over again.
It felt like I was deciphering a puzzle I wasn’t sure I should even hold the pieces to.
“And you planned this out? Bringing drugs to Roland’s to make me—”
“Your fiancé,” Grant corrected. “The drugs were for him. Separation was really the main goal.”
“So, that’s what this all is, then? You’re kidnapping me?” I hung my head between my shoulders, my laughter shaking them. “You think Walton will give you money for me, is that it?” I glanced at him through thick blonde hair.
He didn’t look amused. “No, darlin’.”
“And now you’re mad at me thinking this is a kidnapping when, what the fuck else am I supposed to think here, Grant?
You have me tied up all pretty and drugged in your bed, and showed me events with me wearing dresses that cost more than you’re worth ’cause you stalked me.
I bet you’re so thrilled you caught the Pierson princess, thinkin’ of all the things capturing me could do for you, aren’t you? ”
He flinched back slightly as a furrow formed between his brows. “Fuck no.”
“You think I’m a quick fix for your life, don’t you? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Money? Wealth?” I shifted the hair from my face with my bound hands. “You think this is the first time someone has tried that?”
“Goddamnit, Sophia.” His anger was palpable now.
“We’re gonna circle back to that last part later, don’t think I’m letting that fucking go.
I don’t want your damn money, or your precious Walton’s money, either.
And the fact that you think he wouldn’t pay for your release, fuck”—his fist clenched along the bed—“Let’s talk about why you’re covering your skin.
And if you try to lie or cover it up one more time, I swear—”
“What, you’ll slap me? Grab me and toss me around?
Again, nothin’ I haven’t been thr—” I cut myself off before confirming why I’d been dressing the way I was.
What only he seemed to notice. Covering marks and hiding the reality of what my life had become had been my normal for so long, I didn’t think twice about it when I slipped back into the role of Sophia Pierson: Heiress of Pierson Oil.
I cleared my throat and straightened against the headboard.
“Why the fuck do you even care?” I asked, my tone sounding more weary than I’d intended. “My life has nothin’ to do with you.”
“How long did he refrain from touching you to let you wear that?” He pointed at my dress, the straps leaving my arms bare while gathered fabric dipped low between my breasts. “I don’t see a single mark on you, so what am I missin’, darlin’?”
My eyes stayed trained on the fabric of my dress, ripples of light pooling where it dipped between my legs. I shook my head, refusing to meet his eyes.
Guess he hadn’t lied about not touching me last night.
“It’s not only your arms, is it?” he murmured, then lunged forward and gripped the hem of my dress from around my ankles.
I shrieked as he roughly shoved the fabric up, fighting against the way I was flailing to fight him off, but gentle enough to not press down anywhere on my flesh.
As for the dress…it didn’t stand a chance against his strength.
Grant ripped a switchblade from his back pocket and shredded the dress, cutting a slit all the way up to my hip. He pushed the fabric away from my legs as I surrendered, turning my head away from him as I felt his icy glare roam the length of my legs.
“You’re not fucking going back.” His tone gave no room for negotiation.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I heard his footsteps retreat.
When the door slammed shut, I could no longer fight the barge rushing to the surface.
I shimmied down onto the bed, crying harder and harder, refusing to look at what I knew he’d seen.
What I knew I couldn’t hide—not from Grant, at least.