Page 12 of Power and Possession

“Hey, ass-munch, I’m talking to you!”

This time I set the food aside. “Ass-munch?”

Her full lips turned into a scowl as she looked back out of the window. I heated the butter and poured the eggs into a pan. I worked in silence, trying to ignore the discomfort I felt at having someone else in my private space. Quincy had been with me for ages, so I hardly minded him, but having a woman here, sitting in my kitchen, was unnerving. Even when I enjoyed women, they never stuck around, and I sure as hell didn’t invite them to linger. It was strangely intimate.

I plated the eggs and placed them in front of her, along with some cutlery. She shoved the eggs in her mouth, ravenous.

I grabbed my plate and leaned against the countertop, suddenly finding my appetite lost. Instead, I watched her eat, her eyes trained on the plate as she shoveled in the meal. Her hair was a bit messy, but it shined off of the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen. It was strange to see her in my shirt, one of the ones I wore when I worked out. It was too big on her, concealing the shape of her body. It was a travesty to hide those curves.

“Stop staring at me, you freak.” She picked her head up from her now empty plate.

I didn’t reply, but took the plate away and then grabbed a wine glass, placing it in front of her before turning back towards the wine chiller. I snatched an expensive bottle of white wine, and filled her glass while she looked on.

“Nothing for yourself?”

I grabbed a bottle of scotch from the pantry and took a long swig from the bottle to emphasize my point, before setting it on the table next to her glass and pulling out a chair for myself.

“So, you get scotch, and all I get is crappy white wine and silence?”

“For your information, that bottle costs eight hundred pounds. And I’m not required to make small pleasantries with my hostage.” I sat down, the chair creaking slightly under my weight. I was bigger than most men, lean but muscular. The delicate chairs in the kitchen weren’t meant for me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever sat in this room before. I folded my fingertips together and looked at her, unblinking. It was entertaining to watch hersquirm a bit under my intensity.

She pushed aside the wine and reached for the bottle of scotch, placing her lips over the mouth of it before tipping it back.

“No wine, then?”

“If I’m going to be stuck here with no one but you for company, I’m going to need to be wasted.”

Despite myself, I smiled. She had such a smart mouth. We drank in silence, sharing the bottle.

She was the first to break the silence. “So, what’s your name, Mr. D.S.?”

I looked at her, flustered with her knowledge of my initials. She must have seen my confusion, because she grinned, her white teeth sparkling.

“It’s monogrammed on your towels.”

I leaned back in my chair, resting my hands behind my head. She gulped, and I knew she was watching my chest muscles ripple, and I knew, just like I knew the sky was blue and the grass was green, that she liked what she saw. “Steele.”

“Steal? Literally? So you steal me and that’s your name? Do you make a habit of stealing women?”

“No, not steal. S-T-E-E-L-E.”

“What’s the D stand for?”

“None of your damn business,” I said, standing and grabbing the untouched wine glass and taking it to the sink. I snatched the bottle from the table and corked it for later, my eyes scanning the horizon out the window.

I almost laughed aloud when I felt the cold blade against my neck.

Chapter Nine

Ashlynn

I’d snatched the knife from the block and held it in my trembling hand, desperate for my freedom. I saw the slight well of blood come from the cut, but before I could deepen it, the knife was plucked from my fingers and then launched across the room, landing on the heated tile floor near the sink. I moved to retrieve it, but the air was suddenly forced out of me as my face was pressed against the cold stainless-steel refrigerator. Steele had me trapped, holding my hands behind my back, the front of his body pressed against my backside. I struggled to breathe as my pulse hammered erratically.

“Ashlynn…” he whispered against the shell of my ear, his voice silky and smooth. It was the first time he’d said my first name, and it felt intimate and seductive on his tongue. I could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the scotch we shared. “I thought we agreed that you were going to behave.”

“Go to hell,” I murmured, my voice partially muffled as I moved my lips against the fridge. He pressed his pelvis against my back, further trapping me. His other hand grabbed my chin, jerking it back up to force me to look at him. The wound on his neck bled slightly, but it was a shallow cut and wouldn’t even leave a scar. After he killed me in his rage, it would heal and the only thing left of me would be the smudges my face was leaving on his fridge.

His eyes were focused, so intense that I swore he didn’t even blink. He removed his hand from my jaw, but I still watched him, wondering if he’d strangle me with his bare hands. Instead, I felt the cool metal of a gun barrel underneath my chin. I closedmy eyes, willing myself not to cry or beg for mercy. If I was going to die, I would at least do it with dignity, like my mother. She never complained or cried when faced with incurable cancer. She hosted balls and charity events, raising money for research even though she would never benefit from it in time for it to save her.

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