Page 12 of Locke

“Yes.”

“You sound like a fucking doormat,” he growled. “Like a perfect little submissive. Is that what you are?”

“What does it matter?” I shot back.

“I want to know the kind of victim you are.”

I wasn’t trying to be a fucking victim, and the way he said it, he made me feel pitiful. Anger in the form of heat raced through my head, making my heart jump. “Let me go.”

“Or what?”

Thrashing my body, I went wild again, trying to get away, but he literally held me down with one arm, further pressing that gigantic body over me. “Hey now,” he cooed next as I growled. “Deep breaths, little prey.”

I went still, catching my breath now as the situation continued to grow more dire. This man was in no rush. He watched me carefully like he had all the time in the world, and I couldn’t help but stare back at him, trying to figure out his motives. Kill me? Violate me? What the fuck did he want?

As the seconds lapsed, as he continued to watch me deeply in a way that brought light to the dark places of my soul, he was suddenly bristling. “You didn’t have to take so long in here,” he fumed. “You could have gone back to that fuckboy cunt.”

Startled, my eyes bulged. “What?”

“You heard me.” He didn’t repeat himself.

“You were watching me?”

“Look at you and tell me that any sane man would have looked away.”

“You’re not fucking sane!”

He looked solemn. “You asked for this in a way.”

“Psycho,” I hissed. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You could have run out when the shooting began—I’d have let you go.”

“Then let me go now.”

“No,” he returned, offering no explanation, repeating with finality, “No.”

My chest constricted with indescribable emotion at his tone, at the determined look in him now as he watched me like he didn’t want to but needed to. I’d never felt desire in a word or a look until now. At the same time he was staring into my eyes in that needy way, his free hand grabbed at the hem of my dress and then he began to pull it up.

No, no, no.

Panicking, I hit at his hand, forcing his grip to loosen. His expression went tight as I gritted my teeth, growling, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

That now cold stare bore into mine for a beat and then his lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. Predators didn’t smile. The curve looked like a smirk, but I saw the power behind it, saw the stark meaning. What was I going to do about it, he was questioning. Even without the gun on him, I was helpless.

He didn’t slap my hand away as I kept it pressed against his. Instead, he turned it over and gently took mine into his hold. He tugged on it lightly, the way you did when you were giving someone a reassuring squeeze. My brows furrowed, that anger still present but…curiosity came, too.

What was he doing?

“Just a touch,” he whispered, like he was telling himself that. “Just to see how soft you are.”

I was too bewildered to respond.

He settled my trembling hand against the side of my body. He stared at me for a long moment, his dark eyes peering into my own like he was trying to poke around my being. When I didn’t object, he returned his hand at the hem of my dress and pulled. Slowly. Very slowly. And I…I didn’t bat his hand away this time. I…I just let him do it. He studied my reaction once more as I went tight as a drum. I wasn’t fighting him. Maybe it was my instincts taking over, or maybe I had a sick fascination to see what he was intending to do.

He wasn’t hurting me.

Not yet.

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