Page 39 of Brutal Savior

I’m being stupid. He’s probably on the phone or in the middle of something. But that’s not the point. He’s trapped me here, and I can’t get out. I grab the chain with two hands and tug. Nothing. What if he’s had a heart attack, is lying there dead, and I’ll die of thirst before anyone finds him.

No. Wait. What had he said? It opens in twelve hours as a failsafe? Fuck that. Twelve hours? I yank again, my growing panic making the chain clatter. I hate this. Hate feeling trapped and helpless. Hate that the only thing I can do is wait for him. “Jacob!”

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m here.” He’s standing in the doorway, lips parted as he studies me.

“Get this fucking thing off me!” God, I sound unhinged.

He walks toward me, careful as if I’m a rabid dog. “Quinn. Calm down.”

Oh, he did not.

“Calm down? I just almost ripped my own head off when I woke up, and you weren’t there, and—”

My eyes blur. No. The tears can fuck right off. I swipe at them, and he’s there. He touches his thumb to the collar. It falls off, and he pulls me into him. I struggle, wanting to scratch and snap, but it’s like fighting a bear. I give up, more out of frustration than anything else, and go limp against his hard chest.

He’s wearing cologne this morning, and the heavy scent of it fills my nose. I’ve never been the sort of person that can identify sandalwood and musk and all that crap, but it’s a rich, masculine scent that suits him. His gray T-shirt is soft against my face, and I let myself rest there for a long time as he strokes my hair.

His voice vibrates through my body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to wake up alone. That must have been scary. I was using my headphones on a call and didn’t hear you shouting.”

A perfectly average, boring explanation that doesn’t come close to touching the actual reason I’m still shaky. “I don’t like being trapped like that. It’s not fair. You don’t know what it feels like.”

“I do, love.”

Only three words, but there’s a dark edge to them that sends a shiver through me. Did something happen to him?

He pulls back and looks me in the face with frank honesty. “That was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. I’ll give you a phone, keyed only to me. You’ll always be able to contact me.”

A phone? It’s a ray of hope slicing through my dark mood. Whatever lock he puts on it can be broken surely? Maybe one of the other captive women will be good at that sort of thing?

“Today? Before you leave for the conference?”

“Yes. Now.” A faint smile touches his lips. “You need to get up and showered. I don’t think kidnapped sex slaves are supposed to sleep this much. I may need to ask for a refund.”

Did he just make a joke? He’s so deadpan and British that it’s hard to tell. “You break it, you bought it,” I respond without really thinking about what I’m saying, and his smile widens, turning dangerous.

“I’ll take that challenge. Now. Up.”

We go through the odd ritual of him washing me in the shower again, though he’s in much more of a hurry this time. No stopping to play with my pussy. Am I a tiny bit disappointed? No. Of course not.

“Where’s the fire?” I ask as he grumbles over rinsing conditioner out of my masses of hair.

“Seb is coming over to help with my speech. We don’t have long, seeing as you slept till almost noon.”

Did I? Holy shit. I’m sleeping better here with Jacob than I have in months. Usually, sleep comes slowly and I wake every few hours, memories of the crash blurring with Marlowe’s face. Since I arrived here, I’ve hardly thought of her at all. It’s a lance to the gut, especially as I can’t deny the relief that follows it.

Once I’m wrapped in a towel, I ask, “Where are my new clothes?”

“Where you left them.” He points at four paper bags printed with the logo of Annie’s little shop, a cat cleaning its claws and “Black Cat Fashions” curling around its head. It suits her. “Did you think a maid would put them away?”

“Actually, yes. That’s supposed to be part of the deal. Captive sex slave, no housework?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

What a rip-off. I start to rummage through the bags, determined to leave clothes all over the room just to annoy him, when his hands grip me by the waist and place me face down on the bed. I roll over to face him. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t say you could get dressed yet.” He’s studying my body with that dark look in his eyes, and little tingles start in my belly, radiating outward. It should be illegal for him to look at me like that. Like he’s eating me up, piece by tiny piece.

“I thoughtSebwas coming over.” I put a sarcastic emphasis on his name. Demonic scientists who kidnap women shouldn’t have names likeSeb. It’s ridiculous.

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