What the actual hell?
In the beginning, I’m stunned into silence, completely caught off guard by the sudden change of events. Soon after, everything explodes into focus and I’m assaulted by sensory overload.
My middle easily bends on Jeremy’s rock-hard shoulder as he imprisons me in place with a mere arm around my legs.
Blood rushes to my head, both due to the position and the way he’s manhandling me.
I ball my hands into fists and bang at his back. “Let me down!”
The more I hit, the farther he marches into the cottage as if I’m banging on a wall and not his physical body.
“Jeremy!” I scream his name, hoping someone will hear and save me from his barbaric clutches.
No one does.
No one will.
Instead of taking me to the Heathens’ mansion or a public place, he strategically chose this secluded gothic cottage where no one will be able to stop him.
Like two weeks ago, it’s just me, him, and the creepy night animals outside.
Unlike back then, however, I didn’t come of my own accord. He forced me and threatened to expose me in front of everyone I care about.
He twisted my arm and crossed a line that should never be crossed.
The moment I start to forget his monstrous nature, his devil peeks out his head, ready to destroy every normal thought I had about him.
Jeremy hits the light switch on the way inside the cottage’s living room. His measured steps fall with a thudding sound on the wood flooring.
With every move, every breath, and every squeeze of his large, powerful hand on my thighs, he’s engraving his presence deep in my chest.
It’s like I’m being carried by a giant.
He oozes masculinity, whether it’s his height, enormous build, harsh features, or skin-chilling scent.
He’s toxic masculinity, though.
When he reaches the middle of the room, he places me on my feet with a softness that startles me. I don’t know why I expected him to throw me on the nearest object just to prove a point.
I take a few steps back, scanning the space for an escape. Aside from the front door, there’s the stairs and another door that leads to the kitchen.
I know because I actually took a tour of the cottage the last time he abandoned me here. But I was foolishly trying to find him, not explore.
“Don’t.”
There’s that word again, a little bit low and very much commanding. It’s like he’s reading my mind without me needing to express my thoughts.
“I’m not doing anything.”
He slides his finger on his jeans, up and down, like a fucked-up lullaby. “But you’re thinking of escaping, which is both impossible and futile. The moment you run, I will chase you, Cecily. I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do if—when—I catch you, do I?”
I purse my lips, hating how images and sounds from the last time slaughter my consciousness.
Slapping, moaning, groaning, sucking, gasping, whimpering.
Falling.
I dig my nails in my palm to put a halt to those erotic memories and glare at him.
“Just because I let you do it once doesn’t mean I’ll allow it again.” Screw him if he thinks I’ll give him that power over me when he’s prone to not only stomp on it, but also falsify, vilify, and threaten me with it.
He eats the distance between us in two large steps and it takes everything in me not to push back and show him exactly how much he intimidates me.
Because he does. Frighteningly so.
And it’s not only because of his huge physique or how brutal he can get, it’s that emotionless look in his cloudy eyes—the undeniable proof that he couldn’t care less if he trampled all over me and left me for parts.
That, after he’s done tormenting me, he’ll grow bored and move on to his next victim.
Jeremy stares down his nose at me as if I’m nothing more than a nuisance in his path of criminal greatness. “You say that as if you can stop me. If I want to, I can squash you as if you never existed. So don’t make me choose that option. Be smart, pick your battles, and quit the infuriating habit of going for my throat for the fun of it.”
The apathy behind his words shoots a chill down my spine. He means it, doesn’t he? It’s not just a flex of power. This man is capable of robbing my humanity and leaving me for dead.
“So I don’t have a choice in this? Whatever this is?”
“Of course you do.” He cocks his head toward the door. “You can always leave.”
“I can?”
“As long as you remember the consequences of running.”
“How the hell is that a choice? If I stay, I’m doomed, and if I leave, I’m also doomed.”
“You’ll have to trust your instinct to make the better choice. Here’s a tip, don’t use emotions.” He heads in the direction of the kitchen and doesn’t turn around when he says, “Follow me.”
The moment he disappears inside, I peek at the front door, so tempted to sprint outside.
But where would I go? And for how long can I run before he eventually finds me?
I have no doubt that he’ll keep his word about what he’ll do if he catches me. The first time was different because I actually wanted it, but I won’t be able to handle an actual burst of violence.
My old wounds are barely stitched beneath the surface and if I undergo a similar episode, I’ll go insane.
With a sigh, I trudge to the kitchen, stop at the threshold to get myself together—something I have to do often in this wanker’s presence—then step inside.
Like the rest of the property, the kitchen gives a gothic vibe similar to Dracula tales and paranormal activities.
The wood is chipped in places, probably not having been maintained for years. There are two built-in banquettes with an old-looking table in between. They face the window and a glass door that leads to the patio outside.
The opposite side of the kitchen area isn’t any better. The bar-style counter looks greasy, the stainless-steel equipment is gathering dust, and the fridge might as well be out of a nineties film.
Jeremy fetches some canned tuna from the overhead cupboard and dumps it in a frying pan on a surprisingly functional stove.
I remain in place, refusing to take another step forward as long as I don’t have to.
Jeremy adds some eggs and vegetables from the fridge and mixes them up with expert moves.
It’s kind of weird to see him do mundane things such as cooking. He looks like the type who was served his entire life and wouldn’t know what a kitchen looks like from the inside.
“Instead of watching like a creep, how about you set the table?”
I flinch at the sudden flow of his voice. There’s something about it, a depth or a gruff inflection that gets me every time. Even when he’s being casual. Jeremy has the type of voice that’s made to command, a voice I imagine generals and warlords had in ancient times.
After gathering my bearings, I cross my arms. “That’s funny. I thought you were the creep.”
“I’m open to sharing.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “The word creep, not something else. Can you help out?”
“And if I don’t want to?” I ask slowly.
“Remember the part about picking your battles? This is a perfect example. Don’t provoke me for trivial reasons or you’ll be the one who suffers the fallout.”
I’m so tempted to grab the nearest object and throw it at his head, but he’s right. I’ll only make the situation harder on myself if he decides to put on his arsehole hat.
With a sigh, I head to the cupboard and start searching for utensils and dishes. It takes me more time than if I’d asked him about their whereabouts, but screw that. I’d rather waste time than talk to him. It’s my form of rebellion.
As if seeing straight through my plan, Jeremy doesn’t offer to help and continues with his cooking.
By the time I find two plates—one chipped on the edge—two glasses, and utensils, I feel somewhat victorious.
It takes me longer to clean the surface of the table with some detergent I find. I only loosen up when it’s not so greasy anymore. Just to make sure, I scrub the pesky marks on the corners.
On and on, I rub on those spots, refusing to admit defeat.
“Do you have a cleaning OCD?”
I flinch at the sound near my back. I’d be lying if I said that I forgot he was there, but I thought he was still at the stove and I had a bit more time to try to forget his presence.
“It’s…greasy.” I let out in a breath as he places the pan on the surface. “How can you even eat in a place like this? It’s a hygiene hazard.”
He flings open one of the cupboards and retrieves a bottle of vodka. I eye the thing so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter into pieces.
Whenever I see that drink, I recall that time at the restaurant, his punishing touch, his pliant lips, the commanding way he held me on his lap.
It’s strange how Jeremy can show different sides depending on the situation. He can be weirdly caring like in that club or after he carried me to the cottage, but he can also transform into a beast in a fraction of a second.
“It’s not that bad.” He slides onto the sofa.
“It’s a disaster.” I take the spot opposite him and stare at the ominous lake through the dirty window and glass door. “What is this place, anyway?”
He scoops what looks like a weird omelet onto my plate—the non-chipped one. “Let’s call it a vacation house.”
“More like a horror house.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Name it whatever you want.”
I wipe the glass with a paper napkin, and after I make sure it’s all clean, I pour some water into it. “How did you access it?”
“I bought it.”
“Really?”
“It was on the market for a bargain price, and I needed a place of my own outside of the mansion, so I bought this one.”
“You couldn’t buy a flat or something? Surely your family could afford it.”
“Flats are boring. I prefer open space.”
“With a haunted aura, creepy night creatures, and a gothic vibe.”
“Where else will I be able to hunt you?” He smirks from the rim of his glass and I want to poke his eyes out.
“Can we not talk about that?”
“Why not?”
“Seriously, stop answering my questions with other questions.”
“Why would I?”
Ugh. This prick.
He tilts his head in my untouched dish’s direction. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat all night long, so you must be.”
“How do you know that…? Wait a minute, were you watching me again?”
He cuts through his food, and even though he doesn’t answer me, I’m sure he was.
Does that mean the small bursts of apprehension I had throughout the week were real? But that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been there since he was recuperating from what happened in the fire.
I know because Anni told me.
A part of me is relieved that he’s safe. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if he’d suffered the fallout from that fire.
I still hate his ways, though.
“Stalking is a crime, you know.”
“Only if it’s proved.”
“What?”
“A stalker only becomes a criminal when he’s caught. Besides, I prefer to call it inquiring.” He cocks his head in my direction. “Eat. If I ask a third time, it won’t be with words.”
I clench my fingers around the utensils and glare at him. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”
“I’m a direct person. If I wanted to kill you, it would be via more brutal methods than poison.”
My mouth falls open. I’ve always known Jeremy belongs to a criminal organization, but this is the first time I’ve had full comprehension of that.
“What if you drug me to have your way with me?”
He glides his forefinger across the rim of his glass, back and forth, in a cryptic rhythm, as if attempting to hypnotize me.
“It’s more fun when you’re awake. How else will I hear you moaning, gasping, and most importantly, screaming?”
I should be sick to my stomach, and I am, but at the same time, I’m caught in a trance by the subtle change in his tone and expression when he says the last word. By the way his voice deepens and a familiar spark flashes in his usually cold eyes.
It’s the same expression he wore when he pinned me down on the deck until I had nowhere else to go.
Instead of getting trapped in it all over again, I lower my head and cut a small piece of the omelet thingy and throw it in my mouth, fully intent on swallowing without tasting.
But I do taste it and I pause, then take another bite and chew it slowly this time.
Despite the normal ingredients and the canned tuna, there’s something special about it that I can’t put my finger on.
Maybe it is drugs, after all.
So I take another bite and another. Just to make sure.
“You like it?”
I lift my head to find Jeremy swirling the contents of his glass and watching me intently, his plate barely touched.
My ears heat when I realize I’ve almost finished mine.
“It’s not bad,” I say all businesslike, trying to downplay my embarrassment.
Jeremy’s lips twitch and he pushes his plate in my direction. “You can have this, too.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t take back his plate either. He plants his elbow on the table, leans his chin against his fist, and continues watching me from the rim of his cup.
The way he looks at me is unnerving. It’s like he wants to devour me instead of the food and then break me. Or maybe both at the same time.
So I focus on the omelet, trying and failing to figure out the special ingredient. Is it spices?
I choke in my haste and Jeremy slides a glass of water in my direction.
Only when I drink half of it and I’m assaulted by the burn do I realize it’s not water.
I cough, spluttering and hitting my chest as the burn settles there. “Why…why the hell would you give me pure vodka?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You were choking.”
“Water is fine.”
“Alcohol is better. You don’t drink much, why?”
“I’m not even going to ask how you know that. I just…don’t like losing my inhibitions.”
“I assume it has to do with drugging being a hard limit?”
I purse my lips, but apparently, that’s all the answer he needs, because he nods all-knowingly. This man is annoyingly observant and when I’m around him, I constantly have this feeling of being under a microscope.
He retrieves his glass and makes a show of drinking right from where my lip marks are.
Usually, that would make me squeamish, but right now, all I can do is stop and stare.
I clear my throat, more to disperse my attention than anything. “What happens after we eat?”
“We’re still eating.”
“I know. I’m asking about what comes after.”
“You need to learn how to live in the moment sometimes. Being too future-oriented will only lead you to the grave.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know. Doesn’t suit you, but I digress.”
I eat a mouthful of food and stare at him. “Why do you think you’re an expert on what suits me and what doesn’t?”
“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I notice telltale signs and patterns. It’s what I do best.”
“Because you’re in the mafia?”
“Because I had to in order to predict the behavior of someone.”
“Someone?”
He raises a brow. “Aren’t you full of questions today? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re interested in me.”
“As if.” I push the empty plate away. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“You know, you don’t have to make this unpleasant, Cecily. You and I are compatible and share a very specific kink. I can make you feel alive and desired in ways no one else is capable of. I can take away the burden of being socially accepted. It’s all in the palm of your hand if you quit being standoffish and stop fighting me every step of the way.”
“We’re not compatible, Jeremy.”
“How so?”
“You think of me as your toy, someone you can dish out orders to and expect to fall in line, and I just refuse to be that way. You don’t even give me a fair chance to make my own choices.”
“I gave you that and you chose wrong.” His voice darkens to a frightening edge.
“What? When?”
He doesn’t answer, as usual, and I’m left with the worst case of bemusement.
Ever since I became acquainted with Jeremy, he’s never given me a choice. Not even once.
So how the hell can he say I chose wrong?
He stands up with the lethargy of a big black cat and I push back against the banquette.
There’s been a shift in the air. I’m not sure why, but it’s there, and it’s rippling with suffocating tension.
“Are you done eating?”
“Why?” My voice is barely a murmur, despite how much of a pep talk I internally give myself.
“Didn’t you ask what we’ll do after we eat? The answer is a game.”
“What type of game?”
“My favorite. Russian roulette.”
