Page 20 of Wilt

Chapter7

Rosalind

Ican do this. If I tell myself that, I’ll surely make it out.

Closing my eyes in front of the mirror, I try to get myself under control. There are pieces of my memory gone, no doubt because I was too young and we were always on the run, but this… this man wants revenge on my father? A man I’ve never met?

I’ve never met him, have I?

Swallowing, I can’t shake the feeling this story is big, deep, and all levels of sordid. What does that say about me? When he touches me, I burn, a burn that stings with need. I want more—Ineedmore. How can I want more when I watched him kill Uncle Max in cold blood? Opening my eyes, I set down the mascara I was attempting to apply.

What is wrong with me? I want this man’s mouth and I don’t even know him.

My hand trembles as I pick up the lipstick. I apply it slowly, hating myself, hating this gorgeous, evil man who can melt me down to nothing with just a look. I don’t want to see other people tonight, especially since they won’t help me. Even the maid won’t. The woman barely looked at me all day, like he keeps prisoners all the time.

Maybe he does. Maybe he kidnaps girls and kills the only family they have right in front of them. Maybe this is all in a day’s work for him.

“Rosalind,” I whisper, looking at myself. “You’re a beauty queen. You can do this.”

I can pretend for a night. He might free me. If I do have a father who’s alive, more than the deadbeat my mom ran from, then he doesn’t care. He gave up. Right? Mom didn’t…

My thought trails off.

None of this makes sense. If Uncle Max—Marcus—was a US marshal and we were in witness protection, then who is my father?

Who is my kidnapper?

“Don’t think about it.” I pin up my hair in a loose updo that makes me look like I just tumbled out of bed. The dress he left is risqué, shimmery red, so thin that it hints at my nipples, and I’m wondering how see through it is in the right light. It plunges down between my breasts, showcasing a whole lot of flesh. There’s no back, and I’m almost happy he didn’t leave me any underwear—panties would have ruined the effect. While the scrappy number seems to cling to my top, it skims my body, the back starting at my ass and ending not that far beneath it. The slink offers a suggestibility of freedom, of the ability to remove it with a flick, which, I imagine, is the look he’s going for.

There’s a bottle of perfume on my vanity counter, and I open it with an inhale.Rose. It’s beautiful, yet it turns my stomach. The scent somehow links in my brain with this man, Nikolai Wilder, dark and dangerous, who may just kill me, who sets off a burning need within me.

I hate him. I hate this perfume. I hate the control he has over me. I want revenge.

But I can’t do anything if I don’t even know where I am.

All I can hope is Genius called the police and that people are out looking for me. She knows I’m not the type to just run off, not show for the important part of a pageant. We weren’t in the big city, Clarkesville, where I spent the last few years. We’d travelled to the edge of the state, close enough to the sprawl of Queenstown, a place I’d always wanted to go but Mom refused to take me. Clarkesville, a four-hour drive from the pageant, was as close as Mom ever got to the city.

Funny enough, I never thought of her unwillingness to get close to Queenstown. We moved around, Seattle, small California towns, but she often came back east, yet never to Queenstown or New York, never Boston or Chicago. It was like she avoided them.

But Genius, Uncle Max—Marcus—and I had gotten a couple hotel rooms, so it would be obvious I was gone. People would be looking for me. A wave of nausea hits me when a brutal thought pings in the back of my head.

Unless he killed her.

I start to shake. “No, he wouldn’t…” Not even the most naïve part of me believes that. I fist my hands and turn from the mirror, not sure what to do next.

I drag my mind off that horrific path; I know I can’t go there, not if I’m to get through this. He said he’d think about letting me go. It’s all I have, all there is to cling to.

A knock on my door breaks my thoughts, and on stiff legs, I cross to the door as it opens. It’s not him. Instead, the maid appears, eyes down as always. “Mr. Wilder is waiting.”

I’m being summoned. Like a pet.

“Please, down the hall.” Her hands clasp together, but I don’t know if it’s from fear or if she’s trying to interact with me as little as possible. Honestly, I don’t know which is worse. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I’m about to ask, plead, demand help, but there’s something in her demeanor that stops me. Instinct. Trust no one, listen with every inch of your being, and if you’re in trouble, give in to instinct. This woman is loyal to her boss. She doesn’t know me. She’d tell him in a heartbeat if I said anything. The maid is no ally.

I steel myself internally, preparing myself for the journey. I step out into the hall, keeping my head forward and sweeping the place with a steady eye, counting rooms, looking for exits. The length of the hall tells me this place is big, grand and tasteful, teeming with antiques and quality. He has a maid, so there will be back stairs. Of course, I’m being led towards the main staircase—we’re on the second floor. I got that from peeping out the window earlier, only seeing grass and trees for miles; not exactly indicative of any particular location.

He’s waiting by a sweeping set of stairs and my breath catches. I hate him with everything in me, but I can’t deny that he’s beautiful. Tall, lean, devastating in a black suit, he turns, those dark eyes glittering at me like I’m his prize, his hard mouth curving in a predatory smile that makes my knees weak.

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