Page 4 of Twisted Obsession

And wait.

“You were brought here at the Viper’s demand…”

Okay, I lied. A deep shudder trembles through me. I absolutely do have it in me to feel the terror that name evokes.

Whoever this guy is, he notices, though why he cares, I can’t fathom. “It’s okay…”

Easy for him to say.

“You’re as safe as I can make you.”

“You could let me go.” I aim for sarcasm, but my voice comes out like a husky croak, ruining the effect.

He gives me a wry look. “Unfortunately, that’s not my call.”

My heart plummets. At least he’s honest, I suppose.

“But I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Don’t write checks you can’t honor,” I say tartly. Like anyone in my position, I have a passing knowledge of the key players in all the other organized crime rings in Manhattan. And since I don’t recognize this guy, I know he’s not in charge, so whatever he says and thinks, I know better than to take it at face value.

I expect him to be pissed that I’m calling him out. Probably not my best move, but my brain still isn’t functioning fully, and I’m not known for my filter at the best of times.

And this is nowhere close to the best of times.

But then he astonishes me when his grim face twists into something altogether different with a burst of laughter.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he chuckles. “And what I meant is Mika Rossi himself has declared you’re not to be touched.”

Yeah, like the Viper will listen to his nephew.

A wave of dizziness swamps me and I blink my eyes. “Damn, you’re pretty when you smile. You should do it more often,” I tell him absently as my eyes become heavy once again.

There’s a weighty silence, and conversely, it’s that which wakes me up again. Shit! Did I just tell the scary Mafia dude who has me under lock and key that he was pretty?

Yes. Yes, I did.

I screw my eyes shut and feign oblivion. Seems like the best course of action right now.

Of course, he doesn’t allow that. Thirty seconds later, a hard arm behind my back is coaxing me into a sitting position.

“Here, drink this.”

He must think I’m stupid. I shake my head without even opening my eyes.

“It’s sealed,” he tells me, as if reading my mind. “But it’ll help you feel better.”

Since my mouth still thinks it got lost somewhere in the Sahara, I open one eye and focus on the bottle of cool, delicious water.

He pushes it into one of my lax hands. “I’ll let you open it.” I know he’s trying to calm my fears, but unfortunately, my fingers are still uncooperative and it’s like I’m trying to remove the lid with a bunch of bananas.

“You do it,” I finally concede, the thought of a drink eclipsing any of my suspicions. Honestly, it surely must be a result of my recent discombobulation that the sight of this big, burly man holding the bottle out so I can see for myself that he breaks the seal, proving he is indeed just providing something I need without strings or suspicion, hits me right in the feels.

My hand shakes as I try to take it, so he closes his fingers around mine to help me drink. I know I shouldn’t feel the wave of safety that washes over me, but right now, I challenge anyone in my position not to take just a little bit of security from the only person who’s shown them the slightest bit of care and humanity in an otherwise terrifying ordeal.

Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is?

Honestly, I don’t care. This man has become my savior. My champion against the very real terrors of my situation. If trusting in him helps keep me sane, so be it.

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