Page 22 of Stealing His Cupcake
My hand feels icy cold against his warm one. Gently squeezing it, Lucifer smiles at me in a way that’s just panty-melting and leaves me breathless for all the wrong reasons. Damn this man. I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter 14
Amy
Lucifergrabshisduffelbag and the groceries I apparently dropped at Turbo’s place, then leads me through the repair shop. No one gives us a second glance. There’s no seedy manager lurking in the shadows, no creepy back office waiting behind a half-closed door—just a fire exit and, a moment later, a busy main street.
He squeezes my hand, a quiet warning. If I scream, people will die, and so will I. I nod, numb, and let him guide me like a lamb to the slaughter.
We drive in silence. I lean against the window, watching life carry on around like nothing’s happening. Like my life, as pathetic as it was, hasn’t just been shattered to pieces. I’ll just disappear and no one will ever know why. Kayla will never know what happened. She’ll search, tear herself apart trying to find me. That thought hurts more than anything else.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I realize they’re there. Lucifer’s hand lands lightly on my leg, his touch oddly gentle. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.
“Right,” I whisper, because you should always agree with your captor unless you want to suffer.
As we drive further, I start recognizing the streets. We’re close to my apartment, and panic flares. Is this where he plans to kill me? Stage it like a suicide? Not even Kayla would question that.
He parks in front of my building and glances at me. “Do you have a suitcase?”
I blink at him. “Not really. There’s an old duffel bag somewhere.” I want to ask what he wants it for but decide it’s perhaps safer not to know. If he’s looking for something to stuff my body into, I’d prefer it to be a surprise.
“That’ll do. I’ll buy you new clothes, anyway, so just pack your favorites and whatever you need.”
My heart hammers. He’s not killing me here, he’s taking me with him. To where? His house? A basement? A cage?
It feels strange to be back home with Lucifer in tow. Oddly disjointed, like being in two realities at once. They’re similar enough to overlap, but the subtle difference between them is jarring.
“Cozy,” Lucifer notes as he looks around the space. My cheeks flush as I notice a bra on the couch and candy wrappers on the table. I snatch them up, flustered, but he just smirks and says nothing.
“Pack some clothes and personal items,” he reminds me. “I’ll wait.”
I nod and escape to the bedroom, digging the bag out of my closet. My hands shake as I shove things inside—clothes, underwear, toiletries. I don’t have a backup phone, or a secret stash of cash, nothing that could help me escape. Even if I did, who would believe me now? I didn’t run from Lucifer. I didn’t scream. I even helped clean up Turbo’s blood. I’m not a victim, I’m an accomplice.
The thought paralyzes me.
Lucifer finds me like that, frozen mid-packing. “Everything okay?”
Nothing is okay, but I nod anyway. “Sure.”
He steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, cupcake. Do you have everything you need?”
“I think so,” I murmur. “I… I don’t even know where we’re going.” I shouldn’t be asking questions, the less I know the better, but I just can’t help myself. My brain is definitely wired wrong.
To top the weirdness of the day, Lucifer looks pleased with my words rather than annoyed. I doubt that’s normal captor behavior. Perhaps his brain is wired wrong, too. “That’s simple. You’re moving in with me.”
“Into your basement, you mean.”
He chuckles. “My basement is full of junk, I really don’t have space to keep a person there. Besides, you’re far too precious to be hidden away. You deserve to be cherished and spoiled. You deserve sunlight, freedom, and a place to belong, which is right by my side.”
I don’t know what to say. Precious? Me? That was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me. Also, the most sinister but, well, it’s Lucifer, not a retriever puppy. And did he just say freedom? “I…I don’t understand.”
“You will,” he says. “Just do as you’re told, like the good girl I know you are.”
He doesn’t kiss me, though something flickers in his eyes like he might be thinking about it. Instead, he steps back. “Finish packing. Then come have dinner.” And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by half-folded clothes, too shocked to move.
Wyatt
ItransferthelastFrench toast to the plate and turn off the stove. Amy’s kitchen may be tiny, but it’s well-equipped. Mostly for baking, though the cookware seems to be used regularly as well. I’m more of a stir-fry guy, and anything fancier I usually have delivered, but my kitchenis top-notch. I can’t wait for Amy’s reaction when she sees it. Will she cook for me or bash my head in with a skillet? The mental image makes me chuckle.
