Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
He was gone just long enough to give her ample time to think.
Cecilia sat gingerly on the edge of the large bed, her tailbone smarting after so much time on the hard floor.
Lost in thought, she stared blankly at the crisply folded corner of the sheets.
Even after she’d spent gods only knew how long sleeping on top of them, they still looked like they’d been folded with a laser level and secured with a staple gun.
Her toes curled in the ridiculous pink shag rug. It wasn’t identical to the one she had beneath her bed in her apartment, but it was close. The toothbrush she found in the attached bathroom, however, was the exact same color and brand she used.
Objectively, that was a bad sign.
Even Cecilia, who loved the sweet taste of danger on her tongue, couldn’t be okay with the series of events that had led her to this concrete bunker. Sloane, her phantom protector, had become her kidnapper. He was also a down-bad stalker.
Bad, bad combo you’ve got there, champ.
She’d known she was being stalked, of course, but there was something romantic about having a protective shadow making sure she got home all right after work or peeking through her window when she took her top off.
Confronted with the reality of having a dangerous man watching her every move, however, was a different beast.
But Cecilia was a practical sort of optimist. Growing up in a home held together by nothing more than appearances, there’d yet to be a situation she couldn’t turn around with a little elbow grease and sunny delusion.
Every bad situation had its benefits. She just had to figure out what they were and exploit them.
Sloane is obsessed with me, she thought, lips twisting from one side to the other. Obviously, that’s unhealthy. But I’d probably be dead if he wasn’t, so let’s call it a wash.
As scary as he was, she didn’t get the feeling that he wanted to hurt her.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t, but it seemed less likely that she’d end up dumped in an unmarked grave, so she’d take it.
And going by the way he kept jumping to get things for her, Sloane appeared desperate to please her. She could use that.
Obsession meant he liked her. Liking her meant he’d want her approval.
Wanting her approval meant he’d try to get her what she wanted, up until those wants crossed an invisible line.
If she could find that line, she could gradually push it further and further back, opening up more chances to escape.
As part of her extensive post-graduate education to become a teacher, Cecilia had taken several psychology and behavioral courses.
She’d once spent an entire semester learning the best ways to communicate and defuse conflict.
At the time, she’d found that particular class mostly asinine and condescending, but the lessons rushed back to her as she tried to puzzle out the best way to deal with her captor.
Separate yourself from the conflict. Hear what they’re saying. Confirm what was communicated. Clearly state your position without blame. Suggest possible solutions and request feedback. Rinse, repeat.
Cecilia lifted her head to look at the door.
She couldn’t hear him out there, but she swore she could sense him.
Her heart rate picked up whenever he got close.
Goosebumps prickled her arms and legs not from the cool temperature but from an elemental sort of awareness.
When the locks disengaged, it wasn’t fear that made her body flush from head to toe.
She held her breath as the door opened, letting in a shaft of sunlight. It vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
Sloane slipped into the room, his large body swathed in black. His shoulders alone could’ve eclipsed the sun.
Kicking the door shut with a bootheel, he carefully placed two bags on the floor. They were huge canvas rucksacks apparently stuffed to the brim and cinched shut with a draw string at one end.
A little uncomfortable with how oddly… body-like the bags looked, she cautiously inquired, “Whatcha got there, champ?”
“Your possessions,” he answered, tucking his hands behind his back in that rigid stance he favored.
Cecilia’s eyes widened. Lurching off the bed, she momentarily forgot to be wary of getting too close to him as she hurried toward the bags. “You got my things?”
“Correct. While you were sedated, I returned to your apartment. The bodies have been disposed of and your valuable possessions collected.” He didn’t move away when she knelt at his feet, her hands already scrambling to loosen the drawstring on one bag.
She’d done her best to clean the blood off her skin-tight mini dress in the bathroom, but the possibility of changing into clean, warm clothing made her acutely aware of the fact that it hadn’t done much good. She never wanted to see her work uniform again, let alone wear it.
Which shouldn’t be a problem, she realized, suddenly a little queasy, since my boss is dead.
Shunting that thought aside as something she would have to deal with later, Cecilia thrust her arm into the bag’s opening and began tearing out every neatly folded article of clothing he’d stolen from her home. He made an odd sort of grunting noise as she carelessly flung her things around her.
An explosion of comfort rained down around her — a sea of pinks, pastel purples, precious vintage finds, and things she’d stolen from Dahlia over the years. When one bag emptied, she moved onto the other one.
The moment she shoved her arm into it, her fingers met a hard pebbled surface. Cecilia’s heart stopped.
She knew what it was by feel alone, but she still couldn’t believe her eyes when she extracted the small bedazzled urn.
“You… grabbed my cat?” she choked out.
She barely registered the way he slid into a slow, predatory crouch beside her. His wrists balanced on his knees in a deceptively casual pose when he answered, “That is not a cat.”
Holding the ugly urn she’d tearfully bedazzled in a reverent grip, she carefully turned it so he could read the name she’d spelled out in clear crystals.
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “This is Oyster. I found him as a kitten when I was fifteen. He died a couple years ago and I… Why did you— I mean, how did you even—”
Sloane cocked his head to one side. “You sleep with it beside your bed. It appeared to hold sentimental value to you.”
She didn’t mean to laugh. The sound that came out of her wasn’t even true laughter. Instead, it was a kind of disbelieving huff crossed with baffled delight. Sloane was so strange, so unreadable, and their situation so outrageous that hearing him talk about any sort of emotion was deeply bizarre.
Only half-joking, she said, “So you understand sentimental value, huh?”
He nodded slowly. “I do.”
Taken off-guard, she searched the smoky reflective glass of his visor. He was close. Very close. Her own image was stretched and distorted in the surface, but she swore she could just make out the dark shape of his face beneath it.
In a softer voice, she asked, “What holds sentimental value for you, Sloane?”
“Anything you touch.”
Oh, he’s a disaster, she thought, facing flushing. “That’s not an answer. That’s a pick-up line.”
Those terrifying claws curled and uncurled, seemingly unconsciously, between his bent knees. “Are you requesting specifics?”
Gently setting Oyster aside, she gave herself an excuse to look away from him and began pulling out the rest of what he’d brought. Her makeup kit and several pairs of shoes tumbled out when she replied, “Sure. I want to understand you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are currently holding me captive,” she answered bluntly, “and you seem to know everything about me. Also, you licked my neck. It only seems fair.”
If she expected an apology for the neck incident, she didn’t get one. Sloane replied, “I have a sweater.”
Cecilia paused. Looking at him dubiously, she noted, “You don’t really seem like a sweater kind of guy.”
There was a beat of silence before he asked, “What kind of guy do I seem like?”
She really didn’t know how to answer that. Not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she wasn’t sure it was smart to say aloud.
Grabbing a bundle of comfortable clothing from the mess around them, she stood up and dumped it on the bed. Keeping her eyes down, she reached behind her for the invisible zipper of her dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing,” she answered, struggling to get a grip with her bandaged hands.
Sloane’s voice came from a different position behind her when he pointed out, “There’s a bathroom.”
“Oh, please. Like you haven’t seen it all already, roof boy.” When she finally grasped the zipper, only to immediately hit a snag, Cecilia cast him a look over her shoulder. “I require assistance.”
It seemed to take a minute for him to grasp what she was asking for. When he did, Sloane confirmed, “You… want me to unzip your dress.”
Keeping her gaze level with his visor, she said with more bravado than she felt, “You say you only want to keep me safe. Prove it. Give me a hand and don’t be a creep about it.”
When he took a cautious step closer, she turned her head to face the wall and held her breath.
She wasn’t sure why she did it. It was a bad idea, and she hadn’t thought it through at all.
But that reckless, desperate thing in her that craved danger took over her body in a flash.
Asking him to prove himself was a clumsy excuse to cover up the fact that it was a different, more shameful sort of test.
Cecilia held the bodice close to her chest with sweaty palms. His warmth radiated through her back as he stepped behind her. She could faintly hear his breath whispering through what sounded like a filter as his fingertips closed around the tiny metal zipper.
Heat licked down her spine as he traced its path downward, revealing her naked back to the cool air of the room. Even as the tension of the garment released, it became harder and harder for her to breathe.
Words tumbled out of her mouth, soft and a little panicked. “Am I your prisoner, Sloane?”
The zipper’s painfully slow descent slowed to a stop at her mid-back. “No.”
She swallowed. “So you’ll let me go?”
“No.”
“So I am your prisoner.”
A heavy, gloved hand settled on her hip. She felt him bend over her as the zipper continued down its little track. Sloane’s robotic voice came out quieter when he replied, “No.”
Her breath came out in tiny little puffs as the dress loosened completely. She held it to her naked chest and felt her heart pounding beneath it. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
Despite the fact that his job was done, he didn’t move away.
His left hand remained on her hip, and she felt the other hovering at the base of her spine, like he didn’t want to let go of the zipper.
“The world is unsafe for you. You claim the vampires wouldn’t want retribution, but you don’t know that. I can protect you here. I have to.”
“I get lying low, but I have a life,” she protested, staring at the wall. Cecilia thought about stepping away, knowing that he would likely allow it, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “There are people who’ll miss me, Sloane. People who’ll do anything to find me. Even if I wanted to stay here—”
The fingers on her hip tightened. “What would make you want to stay?”
“I’m hearing that pleasing me is important to you,” she said, cautiously tapping into all those condescending communication lessons. “But protecting me is the most important priority.”
“Correct.”
Found the line.
Cecilia nodded. “Not being held prisoner is a priority for me. Being trapped in a bunker with my stalker makes me feel afraid. Do you understand that?”
“Heard,” he replied. “Tell me what you require.”
“Not being locked inside, for one.”
“I appreciate your intel, but I believe you have a limited view of the potential fallout from your attack. Until I can confirm that you aren’t in any danger, the best course of action is for you to remain here under guard.”
“I could go to Dahlia and Felix’s house,” she offered. “They have, um, intense security. And if they knew what happened, they—”
“No,” he interjected, flat and abrupt. “I don’t trust anyone else to keep you safe.”
Cecilia licked her lips. Taking a shot in the dark, she murmured, “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“Not with what matters to me,” he answered. There was no hesitation with his honesty, which somehow made it sadder.
Cecilia sucked in a deep breath. No matter how she did it, it never felt like enough air got into her lungs when he was near. Her voice came out whispery when she said, “And… I matter to you.”
“You are all the good in my world.”
He didn’t say she was the only good thing in his life. He didn’t say she mattered. He said she was all the good. Everything.
Cecilia had to brace her knee against the edge of the bed to keep herself upright. For someone who spoke through a modulator and clearly had no solid grasp on healthy relationships, Sloane had a wicked way with words.
She turned her head, but he was close enough that it was hard to see him. Not that there would’ve been much to see anyway, what with the mask and all.
Lying to herself that he’d made a good point about Duke’s murder, she said, “If… if I stayed, it couldn’t be forever.
A few weeks, tops, to let things cool down.
And I’d have to be able to call Dahlia. If she wakes up at dusk and doesn’t see a text from me, she’ll freak out.
Trust me, you do not want Felix hunting me down for her. He’s almost as crazy as she is.”
A kiss of metal on the overheated skin of her spine made her shiver. It was the very tips of his claws, she realized, thighs clenching hard beneath the short skirt of her dress.
Sloane slowly lowered his head. The hard curve of his helmet touched her temple when he warned, “I would strongly advise her against sending anyone to hunt you down.”
Breathless, she asked, “Why?”
“Because they won’t survive it, doe.”