Page 72 of Wilt

“He’s there?”

“Yeah, I saw him, but I think he might be making a move to his safe compound.” Rush draws in a breath. “Nikolai, there are some big guns. And…shit.”

“What?”

I hear the wince in his voice. “Your maid?”

“I don’t have a fucking maid. Mia hired Sylvie to…” I trail off, the realization sinking in, and to my own surprise annoyance flares. “They have Sylvie?”

“I think that’s her. Kind of demure, crushes on you big time?”

“She’s expendable.” Fuck, it’s a twist, a last-minute surprise move.

Rush is quiet for a long time. “We don’t do that. We protect ours. We still do that, Niko, don’t we?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Yeah, okay. I’ll work that into my plan. I don’t care how I get there, as long as the end results are the same.” I make a note to call Mia and Tony. She must have been taken on her way home. She’s not going to die, not if I can help it. Rush is right—we protect ours. What’s Finnegan thinking? A maid as a bargaining chip? If so, he seriously mis-stepped.

It does tell me he’s not coming guns blazing, the fucking coward.

“Niko?”

“We’ll get her. I have his precious daughter, so I have the power. This is a weak little move, nothing more. What kind of guns?”

He goes through it all, the men, the guns, what people are doing. They’re making sure Finnegan gets Rose and gets back alive, which I bet is why he took Sylvie. Too bad the death warrant’s already been signed. I may just have to adjust the time, that’s all.

“They’re not storming castles,” I say as I pour myself a glass of scotch. “No, this is perfect. He’s scared and nervous.”

“Nikolai, what if he loses it?” my cousin asks, quieter this time. Interesting.

“Oh, I’m counting on it. Rush, keep doing your job. Don’t go in, don’t get seen.”

I hang up and down my drink. It’s time to finally finish my plan.

Chapter25

Rosalind

I’ve been crying in my sleep. The truly disturbing dreams weren’t just the nightmares, not the later ones, anyway.

No, the disturbing ones as of late were of Nikolai, touching me, kissing me, telling me he despised me, not loved me. In my dreams, I begged. I begged the man who kidnapped me to love me.

I put my fingers to my burning cheeks as I sit up, wiping away the embarrassing remnants of my tears. I don’t love him, but in my dreams…I did.

I know I want him. It’s a desperation that eats at me. It comes with an eagerness to please, to bring him pleasure, to have him pleasure me. It’s beyond, I suspect, mere want. The want confuses the absolute hell out of me, but so do the ripples of the dreams, not to mention that eagerness in my veins.

Every small noise makes my heart slam, adrenaline spike. I want him to walk through the door and take me. I want… Him. All of him.

The dream’s emotions wash over me again. I need to admit it. I’m developing feelings for him. It’s not love, but it’s beyond just want. It’s like falling, romantic and sexual at the same time and…what in hell made me feel like this? I don’t want it, but it’s not like I can make myself not care.

“Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is like?” I pause. “What it is?”

I shake the cobwebs out of my head and slowly get ready for the day. I wait patiently, flipping through one book and then the rest, but no one comes.

I spend the day in his shirt again—since I don’t have instructions, I feel this is the right balance, some cover, but also how he wants me.

Again, my heart lurches at the thought.

Is this Stockholm Syndrome? If I could get away, I would. No matter what I feel towards him, I would. Isn’t that the exact opposite of someone in love with their captor?

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