Page 61 of Wilt

I pad past his cracked door and down the stairs. I’m not even going to bother looking at the front door. Where am I going to go, naked? I have his shirt on, but that’s not doing much. All I know is that we’re in an area of gated properties and long roads and I have zero idea where I am. Close to Queenstown, but I don’t know it. I might as well be in a foreign city.

If I manage to get clothes without him seeing, and if the alarm is miraculously off, where am I going? He’ll find me and that… that won’t be pleasant.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I hit the foyer and barely glance at the door. I know I said I wouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Of course, it’s armed. For a moment, I hesitate as I hear a noise but it’s just the house settling. Tendrils of my nightmare wrap cold fingers about me and I know what I need. A drink.

There were bottles in the study, I know. Or was it the library? I don’t know. This is the biggest place I’ve ever been in, and I’ve only seen a fraction of it. God. What if I run into people? Are there live in staff? Would they be in the house? I’m not even thinking about being naked; at this point, it’s like the entire planet has seen all my wares. No, it’s more like will they get me in trouble. Would someone tattle?

Questions swirl around my head as I push a door open, exposing the room with leather sofas and floor to ceiling books. I almost rush to pull down the books, greedy to read something other than that horrible one he gave me.

I chastise myself to stay focused; the bar is here, and I run my fingers along the bottles, trying to work out what to have. Some booze will help me sleep. I’m not a big drinker, so I’ve usually just chosen wine or beer or some sweet shit Genius once proudly handed to me on my twenty-first. Coming of age, she called it. Coming of headaches, I say.

There’s scotch, but I recoil when I open the lid. It smells like boiled leather. The bourbon is nice to my nose and I look for a glass. I reach for one of the shiny ones I see tucked in a corner, but my eye catches the glint of a glass in the lamplight on the side of the desk where a computer—off, of course—sits.

Instinctively, I know it’s Nikolai’s, and I don’t let myself think or breathe as I pour some bourbon. I put my mouth on the rim, imagining it’s the exact spot he had his lips to.

I take a big swallow, and I immediately splutter and cough.

Oh, that’s some eye watering, throat burning stuff, but it’s a sweet, heady baptism, and it’s nice, I think. I quickly swallow some more. A smaller sip. Then another.

The cough is smaller, too.

Hopefully, if I get drunk enough, I can sleep. The sofa’s looking good but I’m not risking something like that.

I take another long, experimental swallow and cough again.

“Careful.”

I jump, almost dropping the glass, and my blood heats as a bolt of awareness shoots through me. Nikolai’s voice is low and soft, deep.

“I’m sorry I… I left my room.” My fingers clench the glass. I hate how my constant fear and lust toward this man shakes to the core. It shows in my voice too. I wish I could be as stone-faced and cold-hearted as him, but I can’t help it. “Without permission.”

“I noticed.” Nikolai slowly stalks towards me, pulling off his tie, his jacket already over his arm. He looks tired, his hair mussed, as if his hands spent too long worrying it. He takes the bottle and eyes the glass in my hand, then tops it up and fills his own.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

Because he’s been watching. A thrill races and skitters through my veins.

“It hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s starting up again.”

He swallows a mouthful of his drink, frowning. The light and shadow on his face exaggerates his beauty, showing his tiredness a little more.

“What’s wrong, Rose?”

I pick at a thread where a button used to be and shrug. “Nothing.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” He sighs as he sets his drink down.

Nikolai’s gaze moves over me, heating my skin where it touches, and my need ticks up higher. Even with the half memories of this nightmare and all previous ones haunting my mind’s edges, I still can’t think of much other than him.

“Put down your drink.”

“What?”

“Don’t say what. Pardon is more polite,” he says. “Do what I say.”

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