Page 12 of Taken By the Outlaw

The bedroom door isn't locked. I open it cautiously, peering into a hallway similar to the one that led to my cell. But this must be a different part of the compound—the private quarters, perhaps. I follow the sound of voices, padding barefoot down the corridor until I reach what appears to be a kitchen.

Clark is there, his back to me, talking in low tones to the bearded man from the heist—Mick, I think his name is. They fall silent when I enter, both turning to look at me. Clark's eyes darken when they land on me, something possessive flashing in their depths. Heat crawls up my neck under his scrutiny.

"You're up," he says, as if this is a normal morning, as if I'm not his prisoner who just fulfilled her end of a devil's bargain.

"Yes," I reply, voice steadier than I expected. "I'm ready to go home now."

Mick snorts, shaking his head as he pushes past me, leaving the kitchen. The look he gives me is a mixture of pity and amusement that makes my stomach clench.

Clark sips from a coffee mug, watching me over its rim. "Are you hungry? There's coffee. Toast."

"Did you hear what I said? I fulfilled my part of our deal. I want to go home now."

He sets his mug down carefully, approaching me with that predatory grace that simultaneously frightens and thrills me. "The deal has changed."

My heart drops. "What do you mean, 'changed'? You promised?—"

"I know what I promised," he interrupts, standing close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "But circumstances have evolved. You're still a liability, Emilia."

Anger flares hot in my chest. "You lied to me."

He has the audacity to look offended. "I didn't lie. I merely...reassessed the situation."

"After you got what you wanted." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

His expression hardens. "If you think last night was only about sex, you weren't paying attention."

I wasn't. That's the problem. Last night was about more than physical pleasure—it was connection, vulnerability, something I never expected to find with someone like him. And that makes his betrayal cut even deeper.

"My mother needs me," I say, trying a different approach. "My sister?—"

"Are fine," he cuts me off. "The text has been updated. You're staying with your friend for a week now. Her recovery is taking longer than expected."

Fresh anger surges through me. "You can't just decide these things! You can't control my life!"

"I can," he says simply. "And I am."

I stare at him, this man who took my virginity, who made me feel things I never thought possible, who's now calmly informing me that I remain his prisoner. I should hate him. I want to hate him. But beneath the anger and fear is something else—a pull toward him that defies logic.

"Why?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice. "Why keep me here if you've already had what you wanted?"

Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, quickly masked. "Who says I've had all I want?"

The words send a shiver down my spine, memories of last night flashing unbidden—his hands on my skin, his mouth marking me, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. My body responds traitorously, heat pooling low in my stomach.

He notices, of course he does. His eyes darken further, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You feel it too. Don't deny it, Emilia."

I take a step back, needing distance. "That doesn't give you the right to keep me prisoner."

"Not a prisoner," he corrects, as he did before. "A guest with?—"

"Limited options. Yes, I remember." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm kitchen. "How long? How long are you going to keep me here?"

He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Until I'm sure you won't run to the cops the moment you're free."

"I promised I wouldn't!"

"And I believe you mean that," he says, surprisingly gentle. "But you're not a liar, Emilia. If questioned directly, you'll break. You're too honest for your own good."

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