Page 6 of Widow's Walk

There’s an intense moment when I hover over her, drinking her in. She’s trembling but not with fear. It’s electricity. I can feel it pulse between us. I remove myself from her, and she instantly scrambles up to her elbows, and I regret releasing her.

She’s flushed in the face, chest rising and falling with labored breath, and only covered in small pieces of black silk under her black lace robe, still splayed open. Those wild eyes and messy hair. She looks freshly fucked and my cock responds to the beautiful sight of her like this.

My fists groan, and everything inside me urges me to break something. Or claim it. Instead, I say nothing and walk away. All the while, she’s hurling curses at my back.

I should continue my leave and walk right through the exit, but her recklessness seems to be contagious, and in the worst way.

I go back to the office with new terms.

Chapter three

Sinclair

Iam scathing mad as I’m tossed inside a large vehicle with my hands and feet bound.

How dare they snatch me from my own bed and try to haul me away with no answers to the questions I screamed at them?

They didn’t want to give me answers, then I wasn’t going to go quietly. So, I fought like a rabid dog. You’re supposed to let sleeping dogs lie. Especially half-drunk ones having dreams that are more like fantasies of burning their home down with everyone in it.

It wasn’t until I bit a chunk out of someone’s neck and raked skin from at least two faces that they finally had the sense to bind my wrists and ankles and jam a gag between my teeth.

Didn’t stop me.

I thrashed and roared against the fabric choking me, eyes brimming, limbs burning with the promise of more violence. When they dragged me out of the vehicle and to the private jet, I doubled down.

I screamed louder, kicked my bound legs harder, and thrashed my body with every ounce of strength I had. They tied me to a seat using a rope. Fucking rope. The kind you use for cattle.

“Fucking crazy bitch,” one man muttered as he cinched the restraints tighter. I bared my teeth at him. “What are you going to do, huh?” he goaded, leaning in. Closely. Hot breath in my face. “Gagged and declawed, you’re harmless.”

I slammed my forehead into his nose. The crunch was music to my ears. His heckling turned into gurgling as blood gushed from his face. The others howled with laughter.

“You fucking whore,” he seethed, and raised his hand. I was already prepared for it when his backhand cracked across my cheek, snapping my head sideways.

When I slowly turned back with a bloodied grin, their faces paled. They began calling me names like psycho, bitch, witch, and the classic whore, and I liked it. Laughed right through the gag as they all went to take their seats far away from me.

I knew I was helpless then, bound and in flight. So, I thought it would be best for me to take a short break to regain my strength. Save some energy for when we land and start in on my reign of terror all over again.

I allowed them to think I was spent when they hauled me off the plane to load me into another vehicle. Quiet. Recharging. I waited until we were on the move to lunge for the driver, turning the men into a frenzy as I went berserk on them. The van veered, men screamed, and by the time they regained control of me, they were breathless and sweating.

I fell limp again and have remained that way since. Even as we’re rolling up to the estate and come to a stop, I’m docile. I wait until the door opens and someone goes to grab me, then I lift my bound feet and kick them square in the face, forcing him to stumble back. And I don’t stop kicking. I start up my tantrum all over again.

Thrashing and screaming as I’m being dragged inside. Then I’m upright and there he is. Blackwall Golzar. A faint memory from last night. Or just hours ago, as the sun is only rising now.

Immaculate. Cold. Sculpted from wrath and indifference, standing in a stately office like it was a throne room. His father stands beside him, speaking lowly, then gives me a look of disappointment before leaving.

“Why is she bleeding?” Blackwell demands in a booming voice as he looks around.

My lungs burn with the effort of restraint, my muscles trembling from the fight they haven’t stopped waging. My hair sticks to my face, skewing my vision, but it doesn’t matter. I can still bare my teeth. Still resist. Still fight like hell.

“She fought us the whole time.” Wrong answer. He’s across the room in seconds, breathing down the neck of the man who spoke.

“I asked,” Blackwell says, dangerously soft, “why’s she bleeding?”

A hush falls over the room. The tension becomes suffocating. They all shrink back, and a few glance in the same direction. Likely toward the motherfucker who clocked me when I made him snap like a twig, losing control.

“It happened while detaining her,” someone says with a brittle tone.

Blackwell doesn’t move, but his stillness is no less volcanic.

---