Page 24 of Cry, Little Dove

A terrifying thought strikes me, short-circuiting my brain.

Has Cain already broken me? Is this the new me, an unhinged bitch molded into the perfect fuckmeat for this deranged man?

“Then there’s always option two.” He raises a second finger. “You can be a good girl. Obey me and I’ll give you the kind of life you never dared to dream of, darlin’. And multiple orgasms as a cherry on top. Every damn day.”

His change of attitude gives me whiplash and a dull headache spreads through my skull.

I scoff. “First, you wanted to harvest my organs and now you’re asking me to move in?”

“What can I say, little dove? I want to own you, and I’m a bad man who gets exactly what he wants. One way or another.”

As much as I secretly enjoyed being his doll, I don’t want to live the rest of my days like that. I resolve to play along until I find a realistic chance to escape.

“Shit. Okay.” I exhale a sigh. “I’ll live with you.”

“I knew you’d come to your senses. You’re a smart woman.” A dark note vibrates through his chest as he presses his face into the crook of my neck to kiss me. “Now, as your doctor…” He shuffles to the edge of the bed and stands up cradling me in his arms. “I prescribe a shower and a hearty meal.”

“But—”

He seals my lips with his. Desire and disgust clash in my chest like fire and oil, stoking a blaze in my veins. When I refuse his tongue entry, he squeezes my jaw until the pain has me opening my mouth to him.

This kiss is brutal, accepting nothing but submission from me, and like a reflex, my hand reaches for his hair. I pull on it and Cain groans, kissing me harder.

“See, you can be nice.” He gives me another of those shit-eating smirks. “You just need to listen to my orders and you’ll be fine, darlin’.”

To my dismay, a smile tugs on my lips, too. I stifle it while the full, catastrophic extent of my situation hits me.

As if being kidnapped and held captive by a crazy doctor—crazy handsome andcrazycrazy—isn’t bad enough, my body is hellbent on adding insult to injury. My heart is shouting no, but my pussy—that traitorous little slip-and-slide bitch—is screaming yes.

I’m so screwed.

With every minute spent in his home, my captor turns into a bigger enigma.

After getting out of bed, Cain allows me some privacy in the en-suite bathroom connected to the master bedroom. I insist he waits outside, and he obliges, grumbling something about being weak from the drugs and calling him if I need help.

The bathroom is stunning, too. Brown stone tiles, a freestanding copper bathtub, a walk-in shower, and a dark wooden counter with two sinks. Right in the middle between them, as if to make sure I see it, stands a black gift box with a red ribbon around it and a clear front.

My eyes widen as I pick it up, fingers gliding over the embossed golden letters.

Sinner.

It’s my favorite perfume with the matching body wash, deodorant, and lotion. This must be a coincidence, but I decide to use it all the same.

A large cabinet occupies a whole wall, stacked with fluffy, dark towels and a metric shit ton of mixed cosmetic products sorted into little wicker baskets. Most are still packaged. I recognize some luxury brands from online window shopping, and my head spins when I try to estimate how much all of it is worth.

Something undefinable shoots through my chest. Does he have a wife or a girlfriend? Why else would he have this stuff?

I shake my head. That’s none of my business.

I pick out shampoo and conditioner with scents to complement the perfume and some skin care, too. Standing under the rain shower relaxes my tense muscles and eases the aches. When I’m done, my legs aren’t wobbly like a newborn deer’s anymore. I can walk normally, except for some dizziness and dull pains.

Dressed in my favorite sweatpants and crop top plus fuzzy socks—Cain washed and dried my sparse wardrobe while I was unconscious—he walks me downstairs, casually explaining the layout of the house as if it’s the most normal home in the world.

In the meantime, I have to stop my jaw from dragging across the floor.

Mister Beat-up-truck-and-cheap-whisky lives in anactual mansion. A real life, Pinterest board worthy luxury ranch, including multiple guest rooms with their own en-suites, a three-car garage, a home gym, and a landscaped backyard with a pool.

Just how many different versions of him exist in that one criminally attractive, muscled body of his?

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