Page 41 of Stealing His Cupcake
“We’re married, Amy,” Wyatt continues, unaware of my inner turmoil. Or perhaps he knows exactly what’s going through my head, because he continues to explain, “I told you, everything I own is yours now. Which includes all of my money. That officially makes you a millionaire.”
“Um. Eh?” is my eloquent response, my brain slow to make the connection. When it does, though, it’s like a light going off in my head. I’m not a lost child of rich parents. Duh. How did I ever believe that was real, even for a few seconds? Deciding to chalk it off to exhaustion and emotional overwhelm, I move on to what Wyatt actually said. His money. I’m his wife, legally, so half of his money is mine? “Oh.” Why would he do that? “Isn’t this why rich people sign prenups before getting married?” I know all about that from TV shows.
“Only if they don’t want their partner to share their wealth, which is ridiculous if you ask me. Why marry the person when you’re not ready to go all in?”
All in. He went “all in” after knowing me for 24 hours. He’s definitely crazy. “But millionaire?” The word is foreign on my tongue. “Does killing people really pay that well?”
Laughing, he caresses my cheek once more before starting the car again and finally leaving the intersection. “It’s lucrative, but not that much. I invest the money and have a healthy investment portfolio.”
“Uh-huh.” I have no clue what that even means, but I’m not going to ask. He must already think I’m stupid. What if he grows tired of explaining simple things to me? I doubt he’d simply divorce me. It’s more likely I’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere.
My not-answer is apparently enough to show my ignorance, but Wyatt doesn’t mock me. “It just means using money to make more money. It’s why rich people stay rich and poor people stay poor, bar extreme circumstances. When you have money, it’s easy to make more. When you have none, you’re stuck.”
Tell me about it. “I didn’t marry you for money,” I say, because that’s a thing everyone is supposed to say, right?
Wyatt booms a laugh. “Cupcake, I literally kidnapped you and forced you to marry me. You being a gold-digger is not a thing I worry about.”
I almost ask him what he is worried about but hold it back. It feels too intimate, too real, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t like the answer. Comfortable silence stretches between us. Wyatt puts on soft music I don’t recognize in a language I don’t understand, but the melodies are soothing. Resting my head against the window, I smile, remembering doing the very same thing less than twenty-four hours ago. Then, I reminisced about my life being over, about how my captor will use me and then get rid of me. Today, I’m anything but despondent. The changes my life’s gone through are still hard to grasp and, frankly, absolutely insane, but at least I no longer worry for my life. My worries are different now, more subtle. Now I worry about disappointing Wyatt, about him discovering I’m really not that interesting. About his obsession wearing out.
After Craig died, my greatest fear was being alone. Maybe it has always been my greatest fear, which is why I clung to unhealthy relationships and toxic people. Better them than no one.
Wyatt dispelled that fear with his imposing presence. With his promise that I will never be alone again. But never is a long time. What happens when our never ends?
Chapter 30
Amy
Imusthavenoddedoff for a few minutes. The car coming to a stop jolts me awake, and I blearily squint around in the suddenly bright light. We’re…in a garage? There’s a shiny sports car parked next to Wyatt’s SUV. Not knowing anything about cars, I can only say that it’s red, sleek and modern. Probably expensive as hell but hey, we’re millionaires, right? I smother back a slightly hysterical chuckle. Damn, this is going to take a while to get used to.
Cursing myself for not being awake when we approached the house, I get out of the car and stretch my arms up and out. Pops and cracks echo along my spine as it rearranges itself to its original shape. After I’ve sat inside for over eight hours, Wyatt’s car doesn’t seem that large or comfortable anymore.
Carefully stepping around the sports car, I meet Wyatt by the door at the back of the garage, wondering what the house looks like and whether I’ll ever be able to see it from outside. Damn me for sleeping!
Wyatt’s smile is a little strained. Is he nervous? “Ready?”
I’m not, but I nod anyway. The door opens to a dark room. Reaching into that scary darkness, Wyatt flicks a light switch. Soft light spills from functional fixtures on the ceiling, revealing a tidy utility room. There’s a washing machine and a tumble dryer and a lot of shelves with various supplies. Gardening equipment, tools, a mop. My hitman husband owns a mop. I really am strung too tight at this point, because it makes me laugh. Fortunately, Wyatt doesn’t take offense and joins me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This part is a little underwhelming. I should have taken you through the front door.”
“You have a mop,” I point out like an idiot.
“Yep. Gotta keep those floors clean. Also, there’s a blade hidden in the handle.”
I look at the mop again, then back at Wyatt, just in time to see the corners of his mouth twitch. “You!” I smack the his shoulder. “You’re making fun of me! Right?” On a second thought, it wouldn’t surprise me if there really was a blade inside the damned mop.
“A little. You’re absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. The mop is just a regular mop. I wouldn’t look behind that loose panel behind the washing machine if I were you, though. Come on, let’s see the actual house.”
Walking through a short corridor, we emerge in a massive, spacious living room. It’s open floor, flawlessly transitioning into an enormous kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows form one entire wall, but I ignore them, as they currently only show darkness outside and my less than flattering reflection next to the always-perfect Wyatt. I move past a large seating area to explore the kitchen, my eyes watering for the umpteenth time today because it’s sheer perfection. I’ve always wanted a big kitchen and in my dreams, it looked like this. Spacious, uncluttered. Modern but not sci-fi ultramodern. Functional but also homey. Wyatt’s kitchen is all that. There’s even a crocheted doily under a bowl of fruit on the kitchen island and several other knickknacks that make the space look less like a showroom kitchen and more like an actual home.
Home. According to Wyatt, this is my home, and it’s lovely.
“Should have known that’s what you’d be drawn to,” Wyatt chuckles from behind me. “You know I didn’t bring you to chain you in my kitchen, right? I’m an equal opportunity guy and I can actually make my own food. Won’t stop you from making more of those heavenly pastries, though, if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t think I would have minded being chained in this kitchen,” I blurt out, slapping my hand over my mouth when I realize I’ve said it out loud.
Wrapping his arms around me from behind, Wyatt laughs, and the vibrations travel through my body to the most inappropriate places. My pussy clenches, demanding attention, and I can’t decide if I’m more aroused by the perfect kitchen or my equally perfecthusband. Based on the hardness pressing against my spine, Wyatt is also admiringthe kitchen.
Brushing his hands against the underside of my breasts, he lets out a shaky breath. “Can I give you the full tour of the house tomorrow? Right now, I just want to show you one room.”
“The bathroom?” I’m only half-teasing because I need to pee again and also possibly take a shower, especially if we’re moving to the bedroom next. My pussy is totally on board with the idea. After all, we just got married, which means tonight is our wedding night.
