Page 71 of Panic-Button
“Will you smile like that when my come is dripping down your thigh?”
I shot him a glare before walking down the stairs. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom that a thought occurred to me, and I stopped cold.
His come, meaning he didn’t use protection and I wasn’t on birth control. Suddenly, I was terrified for an entirely different reason.
Preston tugged on my arm. “Come on, Little Bird, pick up the pace. I’m still hard, and Micha likes to talk.”
I reluctantly let him pull me down a hallway. Did I say something to Micha? Did I want to know the answer? Maybe Preston didn’t care because I wouldn’t be around long enough. Either way, I had to know.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Are you going to keep pissing me off?”
Probably.
Anyway, that wasn’t the point. “If you’re not planning on killing me, don’t you think you should be taking precautions?”
“What’s wrong, Little Bird? Afraid you’ll give birth to a monster?”
“I’m not giving birth to anything.” That was so not happening.
“Is that so?” He paused long enough to arch a brow down at me. “According to my calculations, you started ovulating yesterday.”
What?
I stopped. “You’re trying to get me pregnant?”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “Your intelligence alone makes you a prime candidate for reproduction.”
Prime candidate? Talk about being romantic. Though, I did understand his logic. Speaking from a strictly genetic standpoint, I could attest that the human race had gone down as a species. Inbreeding, among many other things, warped our gene pool. Taking Preston’s sociopathy out of the equation, he would also be an ideal candidate. I could imagine how intelligent our children would be. But that did not mean I wanted to have a kid with him. I didn’t want kids with anyone, let alone him.
“I’m not having your baby!”
“Don’t worry, Little Bird.” He steered me around a corner. “When the baby is born, you’ll love it.”
The need to bolt grew with each step. I could feel my heart pounding and wouldn’t be surprised if Preston could hear it. My mouth was dry, my palms sweaty, and I no longer cared about the annoying ache in my core. I only cared about one thing—getting the hell away from him.
I had to be smart about it, which was easier said than done.
It was difficult to maintain my composure. Even if I could somehow break free of the chain connecting us, it would do no good to run around when I had absolutely no idea where I was going. I still didn’t know the layout of this place. So, I did the only thing I could and paid attention to where he was taking me.
I studied the hall, taking note of every door—six on the left and four on the right. The second one on the left was open, and I saw the edge of a desk on the other side. But it was the last door on the right that intrigued me. It had a panel and no knob.
Then there were the pictures, most of which were of various landscapes, including one of Manning Keep. It was smaller and unbalanced compared to the others, yet it stood out because the frame was more ornate. Golden feathers were carved into the wood, with a raven in each corner. Interesting.
Another thing I noticed was the general ambiance. Preston’s house was warm and inviting, with a neutral color scheme and plush, comfortable-looking furniture. Not at all what I imagined a man like him would call home. He didn’t wear designer clothes, but the Persian rug we walked on likely cost more than my parent’s house. It didn’t add up. Why present yourself one way, but live another?
My brows knit at Preston as he steered us out of the hallway to an open-concept area with many potted plants and a huge skylight.
“Why do you wear that jean jacket?”
He didn’t even look at me when he answered. “It reminds me of something.”
I looked over at a cluster of flowers—poppies and lilies. Opium came from poppies, and lilies were poisonous. So were some of the other plants I saw. Leave it to Preston to have a room of floral death.
“So…the jacket is a trophy?”
It made sense. Most serial killers had them, which was how I classified him.
