CHAPTER SEVEN #4
But that doesn’t explain why as she squirts her lotion on her hands, my fucking cock goes hard. Why when she starts rubbing it on her legs, one by one, slowly, my cock throbs. It fucking throbs with a need so sharp and savage that it makes me angry.
I grab it through the fabric, squeeze it, force it to go down.
She’s Hank Turner’s daughter. The man I dream about killing.
The man I kill a million times in my head every single day.
But my cock doesn’t listen; it stays hard.
It goes harder, even, the longer I watch her.
She doesn’t just stop at her shapely calves, she goes up to the tops of her creamy fucking thighs.
Her skin looks like silk, glistening under the yellow light, and my disobedient dick thinks she’s rubbing something else into her skin.
Something equally creamy and white but something that isn’t sweet-smelling like the flowers because it carries my scent.
My dick thinks I can make her smell like me, mark her as my territory and keep all the predators away from her.
Like in the wild. And not just on her legs either, but everywhere on her body.
Her perky tits, her tight belly. Her ample ass, her slender throat.
Her beautiful fucking face that freezes my damaged brain and those pink lips that I want to suck on and… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m coming. In my fucking pants and groaning like a feral bear.
I watch her head come up and look out the window, like she heard me through the distance.
If I believed in fate or some bullshit like that, I’d think she was the other half of my soul.
Who could hear my voice without me having to say a word, see me through the dark without a single star to light up her vision.
But I don’t, and I know this is just some fucked-up coincidence.
My phone chimes in my pocket just as I see her climb out of her bed and march over to the window.
She looks outside for a few seconds, searching for me, before yanking the drapes shut.
I clench my jaw in anger. I fish my phone from my pocket.
It’s the text I’ve been waiting for since this morning when I sent the proof.
My thick fingers stab the fucking screen to open the sent photo, my own proof of life.
My chest burns—burns—as I look at it. Look for clues in it.
Any goddamn hint, but there’s nothing. Not one thing to tell me who could be behind the unknown number.
A text chimes in while I’m still staring at the picture they sent.
Unknown number: Delivery date will be confirmed in a few weeks. Transaction will be made on-site.
Unknown number: Location will be shared close to the delivery date.
I grit my teeth harder as I type out my reply:
Me: How do I know you’ll give me what I want?
Unknown number: You don’t. But you don’t have a choice.
Me: Or plan B: I blow up your whole goddamn transaction site if you screw me over.
Unknown number: You wouldn’t. Not if you want to save what’s yours.
Unknown number: Just deliver the cargo on time and you’ll get what you’re promised.
Once again, I’m left staring at the fucking screen, even though I know I won’t get a text back. I won’t get what I want. Not until I deliver the fucking cargo. Also known as Peyton Turner. The Turner Princess. The wrong girl.
This is the reason I took her that night. I didn’t do it for the Graysons or for my best friend or for the land. I did it for this. For my own purposes.
The Graysons and the Turners have been at war for decades.
But this will start a new shitstorm. Kidnapping the Turner Princess from under everyone’s nose—especially when the Graysons have promised to let her go at the end of their own agenda—is going to blow everything to pieces.
Not only will the Turners come after me for taking what’s theirs, but my own family will see it as a grave betrayal.
And I don’t give a fuck.
Seething, I look up at the window again. No one can save her from me, definitely not her blue fucking curtains or any promises that the Graysons have made. Or her piece-of-shit father. I will steal her away and I will get what I want. There is no other option.
It doesn’t matter that every time I think about handing her over to these people, I want to kill something or burn something down.
Or my chest feels ready to crack with both anger and remorse—something I thought I’d buried with my parents and wouldn’t ever feel for anything else—for using her for my own purposes.
It also doesn’t matter that I still watch her, and that any number of those acceptable reasons are not really why I do it.
I don’t still watch her because it’s a habit or because she’s the enemy.
I do it because she doesn’t feel like one.
She doesn’t feel like the Turner Princess.
She just feels like she’s mine. She feels like a prize, a reward, a fucking treasure under the debris that is my life.
Something that I deserve after everything I’ve been through. Something I’m owed.
I watch her because I’m the hunter and she’s my prey. The one I want to capture and never let go of.