Page 16 of Claimed By the Mobster
Really. Fuck him for making me love him even more, floating me up into the air, high on pleasure, then cutting the spell and letting me crash down to the ground.
I find my pyjamas and when that’s not enough covering, I don’t even ask. I barge him out of the way of his wardrobe and the first shirt that reaches my hand goes over my head.
It smells like him and my heart aches.
“Are you going to call someone to get the key and let us out?”
He doesn’t answer and after a few seconds I look at him. Standing in his usual pristine suit, this one pale grey with a white shirt. He has fully dressed, tie and cufflinks included, and transformed into the immaculate, controlled mafia king of Westminster, rather than my patient lover of last night.
This is not a man who would call me his good girl and give me orgasms.
“The key,” I repeat.
A muscle ticks in his jaw and he strides to the bedside cabinet and yanks it open.
“You had a spare all this time?”
“Of course,” he replies calmly.
“You arsehole!”
I don’t know why I’m so angry about this. He’s the one who threw the key out the window after all. I was always the captive. But knowing it was there makes it all feel sordid. Like he was humouring me.
“Give it here.” I snatch the key from him and my hands are shaking as I unlock the door and try to flee. I storm downstairs, and it’s only as I get to the generous hallway that my brain catches up. His room is right next to mine. That’s why it was so easy to find my way out of this otherwise impenetrable house.
All this time when I’ve spent the night here, he was just next door. A few feet and a whole world away.
I hate him.
And love him. Tears prickle behind my eyes and the room swims as I drift to a halt. The front door will be locked. I have no shoes, money, or key to get back into my house. No phone, either. I’m wearing nothing more than Ben’s shirt. If I could even get out of here, I’d be stuck walking two miles home across London streets that if I’m lucky will cut my feet but not give me a deadly infection.
Yay. So potentially, I would have survived one kidnap and escaped another, only to be brought down by a lack of street cleaning and inadequate public health measures. Fun.
“I bought you a house.”
I turn to find Ben right behind me, cool as you like. Fucker. He’s silent as a cat. I’d put a bell on him if he were my pet.
But he’s not mine, is he? And I don’t know what he’s on about. A house?
“Let me out.” I’m resigned, trying to be as unfeeling as he is, when I’m overflowing with emotions. I’ll take my chances with the walk.
“Not while the Bratva still know where you live, and have access from your housemates.”
“I’m going home,” I insist. “Today.”
“You are ho—” He cuts himself off, shoves his hands in his pockets and takes several deep breaths, head bowed. “Tomorrow. The lawyer said your house would be ready tomorrow, and I’ll deal with the Bratva…”
My expression must be as thunderous as I feel, because he sighs and adds, “Alright. Today. This evening, you get a new home. I’ll get George to pick up your things—”
“I can get my own stuff,” I say, instead of asking why Benedict Crosse bought me a house. I wonder what it’s like? A property only for me, that I could go to whenever I want? Mad.
“No. You can’t.”
I remember the last time I was in my room, and shudder. Yeah. Okay, maybe he’s right.
“I don’t want to lose my deposit,” I mutter.
He nods. “You’ll get your deposit back. Or the equivalent. And if you stay here until tonight, you’ll have a place of your own.”
