CHAPTER TEN
MADDOX
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Kyra is trying to fuck with me. She won’t succeed.
I can see right through her weak plan.
Yes, I find her attractive and would like to fuck her senseless. Yes, I watch her on the camera way too much. But no , I will not let the little prisoner seduce me into letting her go.
But I will most definitely enjoy watching her try.
My eyes dip to her cleavage, and while it’s less than a handful, I already know what her small breasts look like. I can see her hard nipples pressing against the green silk fabric and wonder which set of lingerie she chose.
Does she prefer bikini panties or the thong?
My cock swells, remembering how I jerked off this morning in the shower, imagining sneaking into the bedroom to pleasure her wet pussy.
Stop getting an erection for your prisoner.
“Let’s go,” I say, and lead her out to the living area.
It made no sense for her to sit in her room and eat. Or throw another bowl at the fucking wall. This way she can entertain us both with her weird blinking and flirting, and I can make sure she eats.
I have no intention of returning a half-starved woman to her family.
This should not take more than a week or two.
Oh, and she won’t be marrying my father; I will make sure of that.
“I hope you like chicken.” I say, indicating she should sit at the glass dining table.
“Yes. Will there be wine?” Kyra tilts her head.
Jesus.
“This isn’t a date.” I growl and pull open the fridge, grabbing the bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.
“And yet...” She smirks at me when I place it on the bench.
“Again, not a date.” I grunt. “Sit down.”
“I can help dish up. I’m bored sitting in that room for over a day. Two days. How long have I been here?” she asks, plonking herself on one of the bar stools.
Christ, she thinks this is a friendly catch-up.
I need to up my game.
“Why aren’t you more scared?” I lower my brows as I pop the cork and pour the wine.
She’s quiet, and it makes glance up. For a second, I see the flicker in her expression.
She is scared.
“I figure you’re not a monster.” Kyra shrugs.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I am.” I rasp and slide a glass over to her. “Smash these Waterford crystal glasses and find out.”
Kyra picks it up and sips.
“Marlborough. Lovely.”
I raise a brow. “You know your New Zealand wines. Impressive.”
Her eyes flick to the bottle.
“No, I saw the label.” She grins. “Come on, Maddox. Tell me what this is about. If you want my help with your father, just tell me. You don’t need to keep me locked up.”
I press my lips together.
Perhaps I have underestimated my little prisoner. It’s bold of her to question me like this. From the data I gathered, she is lacking a good quality education—no college—and has no work experience. Yet she’s bright as a tack.
I put the bottle back in the fridge and pull the chicken out of the oven. Then start to dish it up.
“Are you going to talk to me?”
“No,” I reply, then glare at her. “Go sit at the table. Once you have eaten, I will take you back to your room.”
Kyra huffs and slides off her seat but doesn’t do as I tell her.
I recall other information I found out about her and then remember the specific item I had my recovery guy get for me. I pull open the drawer and slide the asthma inhaler over to her.
“This is mine.” She glances up at me in surprise.
“Correct.”
“Well, at least I know you aren’t trying to kill me.”
“Yet,” I say, but smile privately to myself. Nothing is going to happen to her. Not a single fucking scratch. I’ll make sure of that.
“So why did I have to get dressed up?” she asks.
“Beats me. I simply told you to get changed. I never asked you to wear such a revealing dress.” I keep smiling, loving that it’s playing with her mind.
“But you noticed.” I glance up and she’s grinning while mine vanishes.
Damn her.
I walk around the counter and drop the plates on the table. Then turn, finding her beside me. I take her chin in my fingers and lean in close.
“I’m not dead, Kyra. You’re a fucking gorgeous woman. Yes, I noticed your tits, and yes, I would probably want to fuck you under different circumstances. But I won’t. So, give up this game.”
Her mouth parts and Jesus fucking Christ, I want to run my thumb over her wet bottom lip and taste her.
She could drop to her knees right now and unzip my pants then suck on my heavy cock.
It would be so damn easy.
I can get out of a kidnapping charge easily enough, not so much rape. I don’t fuck women who don’t consent, and I think we can both agree her letting me slam inside her while she’s my prisoner would not be consensual.
Even if it would be hot as hell.
“Or we could come to some arrangement,” she whispers.
My cock twitches.
I shake my head. I have to admire her tenacity while I dig deep for my self-control.
“Sit. Eat.” I grate out, and without taking my eyes from hers, I tug out the dining room chair, then step away.
Kyra sits, quietly places the napkin on her lap, and begins digging at the food.
I do the same and take a few bites.
Then another one more angrily as I imagine her sitting in my father’s house—the same one I grew up in—dining with him. The same table I sat at night after night, my stomach in knots, waiting for the inevitable torture that would follow. Knowing my body was about to be used by sick white men who knew better but didn’t stop.
I pick up my wine and take a long sip, pushing back the familiar anger as it tries to consume me.
“Will you ever tell me why you’re doing this?” Kyra asks, taking a small bite of carrot.
“No,” I reply. “You do not need to know.”
“I have a right to know. This is my life.”
“Jesus, why do people seem to have so much trouble understanding how this kidnapping thing works?”
“Says the man dining with his prisoner.” She angrily shovels in another mouthful of her meal.
“You will get heartburn. Slow down.”
Her fork bangs down on the plate.
“So, you care if I get a tummy ache, but not that you have taken away my freedoms. Taken me from my life and family and friends.”
I sneer at her. “Yes. I need to return you in good health.”
“So, you are returning me?”
Fuck.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Eat.”
Kyra is right. I should have sent her food to her room. These questions are tiresome, and I do not want her knowing anything.
“When?”
“Stop!” I slam my fist down on the table and she jumps in her seat. “Stop asking questions and eat.”
The fear in her eyes has me silently cursing.
I don’t want to scare her. I don’t like seeing her cringe away from me. I clench my fist around my fork as a sudden need to go to her and assure her I will protect her.
From what?
From who?
Myself?
My father?
All of us?
While I keep eating, Kyra stares down at her food and doesn’t move. Another minute passes, and she still doesn’t move.
“Kyra.” My voice softer this time.
Her eyes dart to mine, and for a moment, I see inside her soul. To the scared little girl who has no idea what is about to happen to her.
Just as I never did.
But she’s not a child. She’s the woman my father wants to claim as his, and I’m completely and utterly never going to let that fucking happen.
“Why are you marrying Pierce?” I demand, and she blinks, only just keeping her emotions in check.
Then I see the moment a crack appears.
“Because I was told to.”
I stare at her, unsure how to respond to that.
I’m not at all okay with someone telling this woman what to do—ironically—but before I can say a word, Kyra stands.
She’s calm—too calm—and places her napkin on the table.
“I’m going back to my cell.”
Fuck.
I watch as she walks through the penthouse. Her eyes flicker to the screen on the wall where four images of her room show the live feed.
Shit, I forgot to turn them off.
Kyra turns back and looks me right in the eye. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She just keeps walking.
I drop my utensils and curse.
Then watch the screen as she enters the room, closes the door and walks into the bathroom. There are no cameras in there. Perhaps she noticed.
But I don’t need a camera to know she’s having a meltdown.
What did I expect?
And why do I care?
Tomorrow, I will make my next move.
It’s time to destroy my father.