Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Bianca
I wake to sunlight streaming through vaguely familiar windows and the scent of coffee brewing. For a blissful half second, I forget where I am and wonder why there's the smell of coffee.
No one makes me coffee in the morning.
Then reality crashes back in with the force of a thunderstorm—the cabin, the canopy bed, Ashland's fucking handprint probably still visible on my arse.
Except when I think about that, about being over his lap, about his stern voice and the way he touched me, heat pools low in my belly instead of rage.
No .
No, absolutely fucking not. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the memory of his palm connecting with my skin, the way my body responded—thighs clenching together, my breath hitching.
Was it a whimper, Bianca? Jesus, it was shock. Fear. Something other than what it obviously was.
Great. Am I so needy and desperate that I'm starting to fall for this man?
He took me. He kidnapped me.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
My ankle hurts when I test it, but it's definitely better. Not broken, thankfully—maybe sprained and probably bruised. Just enough to ruin my escape attempt.
Damn it.
I hobble to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Same dark eyes, same pale skin, but my pupils are dilated. My lips look fuller, redder, like I've been kissed.
Stop it, Bianca. Stop it right now.
This is textbook Stockholm syndrome. I've read about it. The theory holds that the captor becomes the protector in the victim's mind. Trauma bonds form.
This is psychology, not attraction.
Except he says he has me here to keep me safe.
Except he's obviously obsessed with me.
Except. Except .
Except I felt that jolt of electricity when he?—
I grip the sink, breathing hard. I need to get out of here, not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me. No, at this point, I'm pretty sure he won't.
Now I'm afraid of what I'll become if I stay.
I should be furious, plotting another escape. Instead, I'm wondering what he's making for breakfast. What he's wearing.
And I hate myself for it.
I mean, the man did bring me Lancelot…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the cat weaves between my ankles, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his soft fur. At least someone here makes sense.
I emerge from the bedroom, hobbling.
Ashland's in the kitchen. Today he's wearing a black tee that stretches across his shoulders, and I can see the full scope of the tattoos running down his arms—vines and thorns, dark and somehow beautiful.
Woven through the ink are symbols that make my stomach twist: brass knuckles on his left forearm, a Celtic cross wrapped in barbed wire on his right, shamrocks positioned at his pulse points like territorial markers.
On his knuckles, I catch the edge of more ink disappearing under his fingers when he flexes his hand.
These aren't decorative, but a résumé written in ink—violence, loyalty, a life I was raised to fear .
Aw, fuck, he looks gorgeous .
And I'm trying to remember where he slept last night.
Why does he have to look so beautiful? Of course he fucking does.
“Morning.” I keep my voice husky.
His gaze turns to me and sweeps over me—slow, thorough, possessive. My skin pebbles into goose bumps. He looks at me like he wants to devour me, as if he's been starving for six years and I'm the only thing that can satisfy his hunger.
“Morning, lass.” His Irish accent wraps around the word, making it somehow sound filthy.
He walks to me and throws his arm around my shoulder to help me across the room.
“I'm fine,” I say.
“Stop that,” he says with authority. I instantly respond to it, which pisses me off.
“Coffee?”
“Aye.” He pulls the chair out. Once again, I ask myself—if I'd sprained my ankle, would Marcus have carried me to the chair ?
No. I tripped once, off a curb, and he scolded me for being clumsy.
I am clumsy. Why didn't I even question that ?
When Ashland steps aside, I can't help but look at his muscles, wondering what they would feel like under my fingers—flexed biceps when he is over me, under my tongue.
Jesus Christ, am I ovulating?
He pours me a cup without asking how I take it. Two sugars, a heavy dose of cream. Perfect. His hands are so large, wrapped around the mug, scarred knuckles brushing my fingers when he passes it to me. He holds it out gently, like I'm something precious.
I imagine his hands on me—gripping my hips, tangled in my hair, spreading my thighs.
I take a scalding sip of coffee to shock myself back to sanity.
It doesn't work.
“Sit, lass,” he says. And the command in his voice does something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“I've made pancakes.”
“Pancakes?”
“I saw ’em on a post or some such.”
I stare. Are those… American-style pancakes? They're fluffy and golden, with fresh strawberries and real maple syrup. My favorite Sunday breakfast. The one my nonna used to make for me before she died.
How ?
“I—” I stop. “Never mind.”
“You make them the first Sunday of every month,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “You measure the ingredients just the way she taught you, and you hum Italian songs while you cook.”
My breath catches. Those Sunday mornings are private. Sacred.
“You watch me in my own kitchen.”
“No.” He sits across from me. I watch the muscle jump beneath the scar on his cheek. I want to trace it with my fingertip. “You cook with the window open. I can hear you from the street.”
Likely story.
I imagine him huddled in the dark, just outside the window, probably under the overhanging maple. Listening to me hum the songs my nonna taught me. Learning the rhythm of my life as if it were his favorite subject.
It should horrify me.
No, it does. It still does.
I shift in my seat, and his eyes track the movement. He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything.
“That's disturbing,” I manage.
“Is it?” His voice drops, and his fingers brush mine as he sets a bowl of berries on the table. “But you're blushing. And it's not from embarrassment, is it, lass?”
My cheeks are aflame.
“Eat your breakfast, Bianca.”
“Why don't you join me?”
“I'm not hungry for food.” The way he says it, the way he looks at me, makes it very clear what he is hungry for.
I take a bite of pancake, willing myself not to respond. It's perfect, of course—exactly the way Nonna used to make them. And the fact that this brutal, scarred man learned to cook them just for me makes my chest ache.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Because fuck him. Seriously, fuck him for taking me and making me fall for him when it's nothing but complicated and messy and wrong.
“Say the word.” His eyes are molten. “And I'll take you right here on this table.”
My core clenches. I can picture it too easily. He'd sweep the plates aside, lift me onto the wood, and spread my legs. His big hands gripping my thighs, mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can read my mind.”
“Don't need to read your mind, lass. Your body tells me everything I need to know.” He leans back in his chair, his legs spread, at ease. “Pulse is racing. Thighs pressed together. You're looking at my hands like you know exactly where you want me to put them.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.” He stands suddenly, and he's right there, looming over me.
One hand is braced on the table beside my plate, the other tilting my chin up.
“And I'm imagining it too. Every fucking night.
Every goddamn day. The sounds you'd make when you come.
How you taste. Whether you'd be shy or take what you want from me.” His thumb brushes my lower lip.
“The way you'd blush when I whispered dirty words in your ear. The taste of your pussy on my tongue. All of it.”
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only stare at this man who, with no shame whatsoever, admits he fantasizes about me and wants me.
“Is that what this is all about?”
“You know it isn't,” he says. “But let's stop pretending, shall we?”
“No. You need to take me back. This is wrong.”
“I never said it was right.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “But I think you'd surprise yourself. I think my sweet, innocent girl has a wild side she's never let out. I think you'd let me do terrible things to you and beg for more. And I think it's exactly what you fucking need.”
“You're wrong. ”
But my voice is shaking.
“Am I?” He steps back. “Finish your breakfast, Bianca, before I decide to make a liar out of you.”
He walks outside, leaving me trembling and furious and so turned on I can barely see straight.
This is so, so fucking bad.
He comes back with a pile of wood in one arm and the mail in the other, then pushes the plate toward me.
“Eat more. You need more.”
“No, I don't.” My stomach growls. I’m still hungry, but…
“Say one more fucking word about your weight, lass, and you know exactly what's gonna happen.”
When was the last time someone offered me a second fucking serving of carbs?
Marcus never made me breakfast. He took me to expensive brunches, then always pressured me to order the egg-white omelet. Who eats fucking egg-white omelets? They’re a freak of nature, and no amount of salt or cheese can make them even close to palatable.
So I take another bite.
“Can I go outside today?” I ask him.
“After that stunt you pulled yesterday? Absolutely fucking not.”
“I'm going stir-crazy in here. ”
“Your ankle's still healing,” he says gently, raising an eyebrow at me.
“My ankle's fine. Just bruised, a little sprained.” I lean forward, holding his gaze. “I'm not asking to leave. Just asking for fresh air or whatever.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing risks, calculating possibilities, and worrying, even when the thing he's protecting me from is a basic human need.
“Later. The back porch,” he says. “Where I can see you.”
“Deal. At least you know I won't be able to run.”