20. Chapter 15
Iwake shivering cold. My eyes travel to the door and nausea ripples in my belly. It’s open, showing a bright hallway lined with windows, heavy curtains pulled back revealing the cloudless winter sky. Early morning light casts long lines across the wood floor.
Fucking Striker.
The man makes no sound. I know he’s the one who brings the tray of food, always managing to sneak in here without my knowing. Except last night. After Reaper stormed out, I didn’t get a tray of food, just an unlocked door and a strangling fear of what it meant.
Heat flames my cheeks, remembering Reaper, his ungloved hands moving over my body. His warning that sounded a little too much like he wished I’d have broken the window.
My stomach churns, another bout of nausea rolling through me, along with a pinch of pain. I clamp my hand over my abdomen and bite my lip. I’m hungry.
The house creaks, and my heart leaps into my throat, my eyes darting back to the open door. I half expect one of them to come leaping into view, but it’s just the house settling.
My belly rumbles again. They’re going to force me out. Starve me out. Last night I was so scared the unlocked door was a trap that I didn’t dare leave the room. Now I know they want me to. Or at least, they are inviting me to leave. Or maybe it’s a taunt.
Hungry? Come and get it, if you dare.
Problem is, I am hungry. I’ve barely been eating.
I slide my legs over the edge of the bed, wrapping my oversized sweater tightly around me as I creep toward the door, heart rattling in my chest.
Calm down, Delilah. They are keeping you alive for a reason. Reaper could have hurt you last night, but he…
I mentally swipe the thought away, not letting the memory settle. In the late hours, I spent too much time replaying how he bent me over the bed for it to be healthy. My body thrumming, wanting the feeling of him touching me again, need throbbing my clit to the point I almost touched myself, but I knew they’d be watching.
When I reach the door, I pause, taking a deep breath. Clenching my teeth, I step out into the hall. To my left, the long corridor is lined with more doors, ending with a massive window and a door leading to a balcony. To my right, the hall ends at an enormous set of wooden stairs with marble pillars and iron railings leading up, another set going down. When I see no one, I rush to the row of large windows across from my bedroom door and peer outside.
My entire body stiffens at the sight. I place my hands on the cracked sill, pressing my face to the window, trying to absorb everything I’m seeing.
Open lawn sprawls out for several yards before ending at a line of trees. Right below me are pathways weaving around an old garden lined with pillars and empty pots. I can see what I’m guessing is the main part of the mansion to the right. It’s like I’ve been plucked from the lobby of the modern world and placed down in a vintage photograph of an old French estate.
I need to find Cora.
I rush to the door down the hall from mine, but it’s locked. Even though I know she’s more than likely not being kept anywhere near me, I check all the rooms lining the hall as I make my way to the staircase. They’re all empty or locked, with no sign that anyone has been in them for some time. My gut tells me she’s not in this part of the house. For the last week, I’ve heard no other sounds except for the occasional groan of a pipe. There’s no noise at all.
When I reach the end of the hall, I peer up the huge spiral staircase and see a large domed ceiling with a faded mural two floors above. My gaze falls to the staircase that curves down to the landing, and I lean over the railing, but only see more empty space, more pillars, and ornately inlaid wood floors.
My hand lightly slides down the rough railing as I descend, my socked feet making no sound. As my feet hit the bottom step, I stop, leaning forward to peer through the massive doorways flanking the entry. On one side looks like a formal living room, but furnished with only a few settees and a table with no lamp. The other side is possibly a library or study of some sort. In front of me is a huge double door with large floor to ceiling windows on either side, sunlight like a gauzy mist pouring in through the milky white leaded glass.
My belly flutters and I leap off the step and run to the door, skidding to a stop as I grip the knob and pull. It groans as it swings open and a blast of frigid air nearly steals my breath.
“I wouldn’t run if I were you.”
My scream catches in my throat, my hand flying to my mouth as I spin, the dregs of my cry echoing in the large, empty space. Striker leans against the doorframe leading to the sitting room, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks exactly as I remembered him. Skull mask with the scar over the eye. Tight black shirt and fatigues that hug his muscular legs. Black gloves and belt.
I swallow, pressing my hand harder to my throat, but that only makes me remember the way he did and my belly dips.
“Where’s Cora?”
No answer.
My chest heats, anger flaring like firecrackers, my fists curling at my sides. Now that I’m standing here with him, the rage at what they’ve done to us breaks free and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. From lunging forward and punching my fist into his fucking jaw, hidden behind a fucking mask like a coward.
His brown eyes move from my mouth up to my eyes. That night with them, they looked dark in the dim light, but now I can see they are lighter than I thought. Gold, woven with amber flecks, like a lion. Or a wolf. My cheeks heat, remembering the way he looked at me as I sucked his dick.
The way his gaze drags over me right now tells me he’s thinking the same thing, those gold eyes slipping over every inch, making it feel like he’s seeing under my clothes, remembering the shape of my breasts and the curve of my hips.
“If you want to keep the privilege of leaving your room, you won’t try to run,” he says finally.
I have no response because I can’t even try to escape until I find Cora.
He uncrosses his arms and steps toward me. Instinctively, I step back. Striker moves forward, darting toward me, and I back away even more, but he grips my arms and tugs me to him before my foot can pass over the threshold. Shoving me aside, he slams the door shut, glass rattling, then turns to face me. Up this close, I’m reminded of how crazy big he is. Muscles and chest and height.
How very male he is.
I clear my throat, his words from a moment ago finally settling in my head. “Privilege?”
I swear he smiles. “If you try to run, we will catch you.”
We. Them. All four of them.
“There are terrible creatures out there.” Striker steps forward. My feet move of their own accord, my left foot sliding back to keep him from closing the few inches separating us. “Bears. Wolves. Dangerous things.”
“There are terrible things in here,” I say, but it comes out shaky.
His right arm shoots out so fast, I gasp, then he’s gripping the back of my neck, dragging me to him. My hands land on his warm chest and I realize my entire body is shaking from the cold. Fear. Him.
“It would be wise for you to remember that.” He lowers his head until his masked mouth is next to my ear. “Promise me you won’t try to run.”
I inhale sharply as his grip on my neck tightens, making everything down low clench.
“Do you know what happens to naughty girls who try to run?” Striker shifts so his leg moves between my thighs, the long dress sliding up my calves. His thigh hits the space that’s aching from his nearness. “They are caught and tied up. Wrists bound so tight it’ll make your pussy wet.”
At some point, his other hand slid around my back and I’m now pressed flush against him, feeling every inhale. Butterflies dance in my belly as his fingers dig into the small of my back. His nose presses to my hair and he inhales slowly. The same way he did in the club. I wish I would stop flashing on the memories of him. Of how he felt. How he made me feel. The feel of his lips, pulling, eating, sucking at my clit. The way the fingers pressed to the small of my back felt moving inside me. How badly I craved him. All of them.
“Then,” he whispers, his voice breathy, like he’s struggling to get enough air in his lungs. “Once you’re dripping wet and begging for our attention, you’ll be punished.”
The way my clit throbs tells me I spent way too long alone in that room.
I bite my lip, trying to keep the question in my mouth, but I fail and ask, “You get off on threats?”
“I get off on teaching a particular bratty Princess to behave. Maybe you’ll get the belt until your pretty ass is raw and red. Whatever we want to do to you, you’ll endure.” He leans back and his eyes catch mine. “Be a good girl and stay inside where it’s safe.”
He releases me. I stumble back. The cold hits me everywhere. I wrap my arms around my chest. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.
His gaze drops to my belly and his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep, exasperated breath. “You’ve not been eating properly.”
“I wonder if it has anything to do with being held hostage,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words.
Striker snatches my wrist. I attempt to jerk away, but he grips me tighter, tugging me through the large entryway toward the back of the house. My heart leaps, hope blooming that maybe he’s taking me to Cora.
“Where is she?” I ask, my eyes darting in every direction, taking in not only the stunning sight of the old mansion, but where we are going, trying to remember the route we’re taking. “Will you please tell me if she’s safe?”
Striker stops suddenly and turns to face me, dropping my hand. We’re outside a vast room with a black grand piano and an empty table holding a lamp. Like the rest of the house, it’s old, worn, but still clean.
His gold eyes land on my face. They look softer than just a few minutes ago and I wonder if saying please is what made him turn nice. I wish I could see his face.
No. I take that back. If I see his face, that means I’m dead. They’ll never let me go if I can identify them.
“She’s safe,” he says and turns, continuing to walk to the back of the mansion. “Follow me.”
Relief floods my entire body, making the tension in my shoulders ease. I don’t know why I believe him, but I do.
“When do I get to see her?” I ask, rushing to keep up with his long strides. “Can I see her now?”
“Do not ask me again.”
“Striker.”
He spins, tension apparent in how his shoulders stiffen and his tilts. “Do not ask me again, Princess. You’ll only anger me.”
“Why are we here?” I ask instead. “Ransom? Did you take us to get my father…” my voice trails off, remembering Reaper’s words. “What did Reaper mean when he said my father took something from him?”
Without answering, Striker grips my arm again and pulls me along. Instead of asking anymore questions he obviously will not answer, I focus on absorbing the details of the mansion, my father’s lesson flashing through my mind.
Don’t be distracted by flashyclothes and money. You want to see what’s underneath the facade. That’s how you outsmart them.
The mansion is massive. Old. Reminding me of those huge gilded mansions from the late 1800s. The house is in not really decay, but sitting dormant. Unused. Unloved. Like a museum capturing a fraction in time but allowed to rust and collect dust.
The lack of furniture or other decor and the fact the place isn’t maintained makes me wonder again about ransom, but then Reaper said revenge.
But my father said collect.
My head swims, trying to piece everything together. We reach a large dining room and I freeze in the doorway.
“Hello, Tiny Thing.”
My entire body jerks at the sound of the voice behind me and I stumble into Striker, who catches me by the waist.
“You’re little tantrum got you what you wanted,” Breaker says, moving around me to stand next to Viper, who leans against a huge wooden dining table. Striker shoves me ahead of him into the room.
That’s when I see him.
Reaper. And he looks furious.