Page 33 of Wilt

His eyebrows rise—not the reaction I want. It’s like I need him to spit fire back at me, give me something, anything, so I can lose my shit.

The man doesn’t look fifty; maybe mid-thirties, but my point stands. He’s older, he should know better—than… than what? He’s a kidnapping psychopath who likes to sexually torture me and deny my orgasms.

The thought tumbles through me like a shock. Am I mad overthat? No. I’m confused. I’ve tried to keep it together as a prisoner, forced to do all sorts of things, and I’m over it. “You’re watching me, you sick fuck.”

He smirks, something akin to pleasure at my anger rising on his face. “An old, sick fuck, Rose?”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not fifty, but if that fantasy floats your little boat, then…” His eyes suddenly narrow as the mood shifts, changes, and the laconic dark humor is gone. “You’re pushing me and someday, very soon, it’s going to work. You’ll cross a line and when you do, I’m going to make you fucking regret it.”

“Let me go.” Even I can hear the wavering in my voice, like I don’t really mean it.

He laughs at my weak attempt at begging. “No. You’re mine. Your orgasms, your body, your autonomy. That is, until I get my ransom.”

My breath catches. There are too may threads I’m trying to catch here. “You have a camera.”

“I have cameras everywhere.”

“What do you want from me?” I hiss the words at him as tears push hot and burning at my eyes.

“I told you. Revenge.”

“But I don’t know you,” I say, holding my hands out like he’s got a softer side to him. “I haven’t ever done anything to you. So—”

He shakes his head, his smile widening. “Not you. I really don’t care either way about you. Apart from parentage, of course. That damns you. But no. You’re collateral damage, remember? I’m after your father.”

“I don’t have a father,” I say. For all intents and purposes, it’s true. Just because someone donated his sperm, his DNA, doesn’t make him a father. “You killed the only man close to being a father to me.”

“Rose,” he says with a cruel laugh. “You’re so fucking naïve. He didn’t give a shit about you. He was doing his job. I’m pretty sure he was crooked—”

“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep?” I say, glaring. “To ease your guilt over the murder of an innocent man?”

He laughs again, still cruel and biting. “Oh, fuck me, Rose. If you’re trying to get at my guilt, forget it. I don’t have a conscience. I sleep fine, little brat.” His gaze slides over me again, and it makes me feel sick. “Look at you, probing for weakness, something to use. You’re definitely your father’s kid.”

I shake my head. “I can’t help who made me. I didn’t choose.”

“No, but it shaped you. It’s in your blood. He’s in your blood.”

I decide to play his game; maybe I can catch him in a logical fallacy.Anythingto get the upper hand, as slight as it is. “So is my mother.”

“She turned evidence on him, on others, turned her back while people died. That makes her just like him, Rosalind. You’re all theirs. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to kill her in front of your old man.”

A horrified gasp escapes me.

“Honestly, it’s a wonder you’ve lived so long, in your dark little hole of willful denial.”

Something inside me snaps at his taunts. Before I know it, I swing my hand at his face, and it connects with his cheek in a resounding crack. My stomach goes haywire as soon as I do it, immediately horrified at what I’ve done.

The handprint burns red against his lean cheek.

He’s going to kill me.

Chapter12

Nikolai

Istare at Rosalind. Murder is definitely an idea. I don’t move. No one has dared hit me in years. And she…

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