Page 15 of Wilt

“Yes, Rose?”

I fist the bag in my lap. “That’s not my name, you know. I’m Rosalind.”

“Not anymore.”

I turn my gaze up to him, and those eyes are pools of sin, wickedness, and passion. There’s something else there, too, something biting into me, and his eyes harden as a slow smile blooms across his face.

This guy is out of his mind.

More fuzzy pieces of my memory slowly come back to me: him holding a gun to my temple, whispering about me being his now. HisRose.

I hate it.

“You shot him and kidnapped me,” I accuse stiffly.

“I did do that, yeah.” He hooks a stray loose curl behind my ear, his fingers soft as they brush across my cheek. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat.”

I grit my teeth, controlling the urge to glare at him. He kissed me and then said disgusting things that turned me on and inside out. I squeeze my eyes shut, the feel of his mouth on mine peeling through my mind, his tongue, the bite of him against my throat as he licked and kissed and sucked on my skin. I remember the electric pleasure when he touched me, his fingers on my clit over my panties.

I remember everything.

Him grabbing me.

Laughing.

Pulling that trigger.

My stomach heaves.

“You’re a monster.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

His nonchalance and coldness grates on my nerves, but I know I need to walk a fine line if I want any chance of escaping alive. He’s capable of unspeakable things, and like it or not, I’m at his mercy. I need to be smart about this if I don’t want to be carried out in a body bag.

Another thought pops into my mind—a name. Niko. There was another man with him; I remember him calling him Niko. Wilder… Uncle Max had called him Wilder.

“Wilder?” I ask carefully. “Is that your name? Niko Wilder?”

His entire body stiffens, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. I guessthat’sa detail he was hoping I wouldn’t recall.

His gaze hardens but he doesn’t look away. “Don’t call me that.”

“But—”

“It’s Nikolai,” he growls. He changed my name so easily, yet he’s touchy about his own?

Fuck. Him.

After a long bout of tense silence, he nudges the paper bag in my arms. “Eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

He’s trying to control me, I know. Food is the last thing on my mind right now, but my stomach grumbles. So, with nervous fingers, I open the sack. Inside is a burger and a box of fries. As I pick up a salty fry, I feel Nikolai’s eyes on me, watching me as I bite down. His gaze sends a tingle down my spine, but I focus on the food and keeping it down.

He must have gotten the burger from a higher-end joint—there’s no fast-food logo on the front, and I don’t instantly hate myself after eating it. If I could taste anything other than fear, guilt, and gut-wrenching sadness, it would be delicious.

---