Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
SLOAN
Moonlight streams through the bedroom windows, casting everything in silvery shadows. Beside me, Asher sleeps deeply, his breathing slow and even. One arm is draped possessively across my waist, holding me against his warm body.
When he looked at me with those burning, needy eyes, I didn't resist.
I should have. I shouldn’t have let things go that far so quickly. But the look on his face consumed me, and when he touched me...
When he touched me, my body remembered everything we did on Christmas Eve and how he made me feel things I'd never experienced with Alex, things I didn't even know I was capable of feeling. And even though we’ve been through the murder…
and the kidnapping… and the complete destruction of my life… those feelings are still there.
Still real.
Still dangerous as hell.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him as I turn to study his face in the moonlight. Asleep, he looks at peace. The harsh lines are smoothed away. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes steadily.
He's beautiful, in the way that dangerous things often are. Beautiful and terrible and completely wrong for me in every possible way.
But my body doesn't care about the morality of the situation.
Except I'm not sure what this is anymore.
Because when he carried me to the bedroom an hour ago, when he laid me down on the soft sheets and looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world, I wasn't thinking about survival. I wasn't planning my next move in this fucked up game we're playing.
I was just... feeling. Wanting. Responding to him in a way that scared the hell out of me.
And that's the problem.
I close my eyes, trying to sort through the chaos in my head.
This was supposed to be manipulation. Psychological warfare designed to make him trust me, to give me the opening I need to escape.
But somewhere between the thoughtful gestures and the snowy setting and the way he whispered my name like a sin, the lines got blurred.
How much of tonight was performance, and how much was real?
How much of what I'm feeling is my own fucking strategy, and how much is actual attraction to a man actively working to destroy my life?
The questions circle through my mind, picking at my certainty until there's nothing left but confusion and self-doubt. Because the truth is, I enjoyed it. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of pleasure he wrung from my willing body… I enjoyed all of it.
And that makes me sick.
What kind of person responds to her kidnapper like this?
What kind of woman looks at a murderer and sees someone worth wanting?
The rational part of my mind knows that trauma does strange things to people, that survival instincts can manifest in unexpected ways.
But knowing that doesn't make it easier to live with.
It doesn't make it easier to accept that part of me is starting to care about him.
Asher murmurs something in his sleep, tightening his arm around my waist. The movement is undoubtedly possessive, like even in dreams he needs to make sure I'm still here. Still his.
I should hate being held like this. I should feel trapped and violated and desperate to escape. Instead, there's a part of me that finds comfort in his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and in the solid strength of his body pressed against mine.
It's wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
I think about Alex, trying to summon guilt or grief or anything that might counteract this growing confusion.
But Alex feels like a lifetime ago, a character from someone else's story.
The man I thought I loved was weak where Asher is strong, predictable where Asher is dangerous, safe where Asher is intoxicating.
Not that any of that justifies murder or kidnapping me.
But in the dark honesty of this moment, I can admit that what I felt for Alex was nothing compared to the complicated tangle of emotions Asher has created.
But no matter how good he makes me feel, no matter how thoroughly he's obsessed over my needs and desires, and no matter how perfectly he seems to understand the darker parts of my sexuality that I've never shared with anyone…
he's still a killer. Still a kidnapper. Still someone who thinks lust justifies destroying other people's lives.
His breathing shifts slightly, and for a moment I think he might be waking up. But he just sighs softly and settles deeper into sleep, his grip on me loosening just enough for me to move without disturbing him.
I try to imagine what Cara would say if she could see me now.
She always told me I needed to be more adventurous, to take risks, to stop settling for men who didn't appreciate me for who I was.
Would she be horrified by where that advice led me?
Or would she understand that this is the first time I've ever felt truly alive? Do I…? Do I feel alive?
The thought makes my chest tight with guilt. My parents are probably beside themselves, calling the police, organizing search parties, doing everything they can to find their missing daughter. Normally, I’ve checked in by now. I’ve never gone this long without talking to them.
And here I am, lying in the arms of my captor, trying to decide if what I feel for him is real or just elaborate psychological manipulation. Stockholm syndrome.
Maybe there's no difference anymore.
Asher's lips curve slightly in his sleep, like he's having a happy dream. I wonder if he's dreaming about me, or us.
I close my eyes and try to remember who I was before Christmas Eve. Sloan the hairdresser, with her very safe life and her stable boyfriend and her undeniably predictable future. She feels like a stranger now, like someone I used to know but can barely recall.
The woman I am right now feels more real than anything I’ve ever felt before.
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows and sending snow spiraling past the glass. The sound is oddly comforting, a reminder of how completely cut off we are from the rest of the world. How easy it would be to disappear entirely into this life he's created for us.
How easy it would be to stop fighting and start feeling.
Asher's breathing evens out again, and I can tell he's fallen into deeper sleep. His arm is completely relaxed around me, but he doesn't let go. Even unconscious, he maintains that claim on my body.
My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion begins to claim me. I’m feeling drained from the day. From the week, really.
As I drift toward sleep, I'm dimly aware of Asher's hand moving in slow, unconscious circles against my skin. The gesture is so gentle, so tender, that it makes my throat tight with emotions I don't dare name.
My last conscious thought is a question that follows me into dreams: What if this isn't him trying to manipulate me?
What if this is what love is supposed to feel like? Wholly, completely consuming.
The wind continues to howl outside, but here in this bed, wrapped in his arms, I feel safe. And if that makes me crazy, then maybe crazy is exactly what I'm meant to be.
Maybe this is who I was always supposed to become.
Sleep takes me under like dark water, and for the first time since Christmas Eve, I don't dream of escaping this man.
I dream of staying.