Page 11 of Stolen Bride for the Don

I wake up curled in the fetal position on a bed of soft clouds with a warm comforter wrapped around my shoulders. I blink at the unfamiliar bedside table and turn on my back with a long stretch. Where am I? I lock eyes with…myself. Hanging above the bed is a massive mirror. I see myself sprawled out on black, silk sheets. What the fuck?

I glance around the room and the memories come rushing back. I lurch up from the bed, glancing around wildly. How did I get on the bed? The last thing I remember is crumbling to the floor in front of the door with exhaustion. He must have come in at some point during the night to carry me to the bed. And, of course, the freak has a mirror above it. I roll my eyes at the vulgarity of it. Predictable asshole.

“That bastard.” That son of a bitch. I’m not normally prone to swear, but this psychopath brings it out in me. With anger in every step, I stomp to the door and jerk the handle, but it’s still locked, of course. Because I’m a prisoner.

“Fucker!” I shout as I kick the base of the door angrily. Pain vibrates through my entire body. “Motherfucker,” I groan miserably as I hop away from the door. That’s when I notice the silver tray on the ottoman facing the fireplace.

On the tray is a plate stacked with fluffy pancakes, dripping with syrup. Another plate is covered with scrambled eggs. The last has sliced apples, strawberries, and blackberries. Next to the plates are two bottles of water. I turn my back to the meal, ignoring the hunger pangs starting to make themself known, reminding me that I only ate half of a granola bar yesterday.

I stomp to the bathroom where I tear the packaging off one of the toothbrushes. I apply paste to it liberally and aggressively brush my teeth, taking my anger out on my helpless gums, which I notice are now bleeding when I spit in the sink. Great. Fucking fantastic. I stomp my way back to the bedroom and make a beeline for the French doors, leading out to the balcony. The doors are still locked, but I can make out a large pool and beyond it a dense line of tall trees. This must be a large compound. Once I find a way out, I’m going to have to run a long way to get off his property…and somehow avoid the armed guards.

My stomach grumbles, but I ignore it. It may seem childish and futile, but I refuse to eat his food. One, I have no idea how or what it was cooked with. What if it’s laced with something to make me compliant? Or worse yet, poisonous. I know he’s not going to kill me…yet. My brother’s drilled into me: NEVER, under any circumstances, drink or eat food that has been prepared out of my sight unless it’s from family or a reputable restaurant.

I pace the room restless as the sun rises. Have I been discovered missing? Who found out? Is anyone even suspicious that they haven’t heard from me? I’m an independent woman, a fact that I have attempted to reinforce with my overprotective family. I told Dad last night that I was thinking about leaving on vacation today; would he think to check in with me? God, this is why they’re so worried all the time. They’re going to kill me. And then I’m in for the lecture of a lifetime.

On one hand, I don’t want anyone to realize I’m gone. That’s the best option for Dad’s health. But that would require finding a way out of here on my own; in the meantime I’m stuck here. Making me reliant on Hudson–Massimo’s–good will. I’m one hundred percent screwed.

When I can’t stand my thoughts any longer, I peruse the bookshelf and drag a Stephen King book to me. Seems fitting since my life is a horror show right now. I make my way to the bed and snuggle underneath the covers as I open the first page. The lingering masculine scent in the sheets is distracting enough, but I’m barely able to concentrate past my hunger. Somehow I force myself through the first page. I’m nothing if not determined.

It’s either this or my thoughts. But after just a couple chapters, the words start to blur, so I drop the book on the bedside table with a sigh. I glance at the food tray again. Damn it, why does it have to smell so delicious? I start to salivate and catch myself. Get it together woman. It’s been one day; you’re stronger than this.

I turn my back to the food-laden ottoman, causing my filthy dress from Ezra’s wedding—which seems so long ago already–to scrape my thighs with the remnants of yesterday’s tussle in the mud. I run my hand over the material and wince as a sudden twinge of pain courses over my thigh. I pull up the dress and am horrified to discover bruise marks in the pattern of large fingers across my outer thighs. I’m not surprised, though; we went down hard, and Hudson’s large hands gripped me so tightly that I thought he might break the skin.

The reminder of that interaction causes a sudden wave of heat to course through me and pool low in my belly; the sudden need for friction between my thighs is nearly unbearable. I rub them together only to find that they are also quite tender from when that evil man had himself firmly wedged between my legs, pinning me to the cold ground.

My hands begin to trail down my body in the same path that he grazed yesterday with his rough palms–over my hip and across my panties. Wait. What the fuck am I doing? What kind of sick fantasy is this? I’m nearly ready to come undone at the thought of my captor wrestling me in the woods. But, then again, it’s just me here; it’s not like I’m giving into him. And I don’t exactly have anything else to do…

My hand finally dips between my thighs, and I arch in pleasure. As I move my fingers just the way I like, I can’t help but imagine Hudson’s hot palm rubbing against me, bringing me close to release after barely a minute of attention. I glance up and make eye contact with myself in the ceiling mirror. Oh, right. I’m lying on the bed of a self-absorbed psycho, who to be honest is probably watching me right now.

The thought that he could be witnessing my bored attempt at entertainment only fuels my aching need further, and I almost give in to my building climax. I’m so fucked. I decide there’s no need to drag this out any longer. I don’t particularly want to dwell on why my thoughts keep coming back to him, so I throw my hand over my mouth as I spiral through an orgasm. The last thing I need is one of his goons overhearing me enjoying myself in here.

Unfortunately, now that I’m satiated in one form, I’m reminded of my relentless hunger. Ugh. What else can I do to pass some time? I get up from the bed and make my way to the closet filled with Hudson’s clothes. I open a drawer and admire the rows of neatly- folded ties. I rip them out until they are tossed about haphazardly and shut the drawer with a contented smile on my face.

A feeling of immense satisfaction fills me as I continue my destruction throughout the entire spacious closet. By the time I’m done, it looks like a hurricane swept through the space, leaving no garment untouched by its menace. I grin as I glance around.

My evil work done, I grab a black soft shirt and black pajamas pants. Clothes draped over my arm, I go to the bathroom, locking the door behind me just in case someone comes into the bedroom…although I’m sure that wouldn’t stop them. Yesterday’s resolve long abandoned, I drop the clothes on the rim of the sink and take off the silky dress and my bra. I go to remove my thong and hesitate, but damn it, I can’t go around with dirty underwear so I push them down my legs. I tuck my thong into the hidden pocket of the dress and toss them into the hamper next to the sink.

I make my way to the shower, open the frosted door, and take a step inside before I’m frozen in shock. Standing next to expensive, masculine products is the exact brand of body wash I use, and next to that, my face wash, shampoo and conditioner.

“The psycho,” I curse.

I lift the bottles off the glass shelf to check their contents; they’re all completely full. Meaning, he bought them in anticipation of my arrival. How did he even know the brand of products I use? How long has he been watching me? Fuck, how could I not notice that I was being stalked? Am I really that unaware of my surroundings? Or is he just that good?

I settle on the latter because Alex assigned a bodyguard to me as soon as I moved out of our parents’ house, and I know he can’t be bought. He doesn’t shadow my every move, but he’d certainly notice if I had a full-on stalker, one who has clearly been inside my house. Which means Hudson is just on some other level of stealthy. That makes me feel marginally better; that this was more or less unavoidable. As I go ahead with my shower routine, I have to admit it’s nice to have my products here, where everything else is so unfamiliar.

CHAPTER 9

HUDSON

“What are you going to do about the Beaufort girl?” Crew asks when we’re done with our daily meetings, during which we discuss new developments both with Moor Cooperation, my legal business. I own several factories that produce automotive parts and construction materials for transportation vehicles and RVs as well as equipment to manufacture floors, doors, and roofs. My underworld business entails nightclubs, restaurants, etc.

“She has a name.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this, H. She still hasn’t eaten and I’m getting worried because she’s stopped trying to scream the roof off.”

I sigh as I shut down my laptop. I know she didn’t eat all day yesterday, but I was slammed with so much work that by the time I went to see her, she was already fast asleep. She looked so peaceful sleeping that I was loath to disturb her. But I’ll be damned if thoughts of her pleasuring herself in my bed don’t make it near impossible to keep my hands to myself.

I’ve seen her take care of her needs many times over the months I’ve watched her at home; let me tell you that woman is damn near insatiable. The hidden cameras I placed around her house nearly all caught one session or another of her delicate hands bringing her to body-wracking orgasm…on the couch, in her bed, even in the damn kitchen. I’ve imagined myself being the one to bring such pleasure to her countless times, but seeing her writhe in my bed and not being there to help her along was torture.

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