Page 4 of Taken By the Outlaw

"You're not in a position to make promises," I tell her, unlocking the door to our most secure room.

It's bare-bones—a bed, a small bathroom attached, a single window too small to climb through and reinforced with steel bars. We've held rivals here before negotiations. Never a woman. Never someone like her.

I push her gently inside, surprised at my own restraint. "You'll stay here until I decide what to do with you."

She turns to face me, chin lifted slightly despite her fear. "And how long will that be?"

I study her for a moment. She's younger than I initially thought, maybe nineteen or twenty. Not a child, but not hardened by the world either. Her chestnut hair falls in waves past her shoulders, slightly mussed from the night's events. Her skin is pale, perfect, unmarked by the harsh realities that have shaped my own life.

"That depends," I say, letting my gaze trail over her deliberately. "On a lot of things."

Her cheeks flush, and there it is—a reaction that drives a spike of satisfaction through me. I want to see more of that blush, want to discover how far down her neck it travels, whether it spreads across her chest.

"What things?" she asks, her voice steadier than I expected.

I take a step closer, invading her space, watching as she forces herself not to back away.

"Whether I can trust you," I say, though that's only part of the truth. The other part is darker, hungrier.Whether I can have you. Whether one taste will be enough.

Her eyes widen slightly, sensing the unspoken.

"I need to call my family," she says. "My mother is sick, she'll worry?—"

"No calls," I cut her off. "No contact."

"But—"

"This isn't a negotiation, little librarian."

Her lips press together, frustration briefly overtaking fear. "My name is Emilia."

I find myself smiling, genuinely amused by her attempt at asserting control. "I know your name."

"Then use it," she says, surprising me. "If I'm going to be your prisoner, at least give me that much dignity."

I lean in, close enough to smell her—vanilla and paper and something uniquely female. Not perfume. Just her. "Emilia," I say, dragging out each syllable, watching goosebumps rise on her skin in response.

Satisfaction blooms hot in my chest. I affect her, this innocent creature. She's afraid, yes, but there's something else in those hazel eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even desire.

My cock goes rock hard in my jeans, and I hiss in a breath at the sudden urgency of it.

I step back abruptly, unsettled by my own reaction. "There's a bathroom through that door. Try to sleep. I'll bring you food in the morning."

Before she can respond, I leave, locking the door behind me. I stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to regain my equilibrium. What the fuck is wrong with me? She's a witness, a liability, potentially the downfall of everything I've built. I should be concerned with damage control, not with how soft her skin feels or how her eyes darken when I say her name.

Mick is waiting when I return to the main room. "We need to talk about this, Clark."

I reach for the bottle of whiskey behind the bar, pouring a generous glass. "She stays here until I decide otherwise."

"She saw everything. Our faces, the job?—"

"You think I don't know that?" I snap, slamming the glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshes over the rim. "I'm handling it."

Mick runs a hand over his beard, his usual stoic demeanor cracking with concern. "This isn't like you, man. You don't make these kinds of calls. Witnesses get silenced."

"She's not getting 'silenced,'" I growl, the very thought making my stomach turn.

"Then what? We keep her locked up forever?"

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