Page 73 of Wilt

“You’d come looking for him.”

The words pop out of my mouth before I even realize I’d been thinking them. They shock me—I’m not sure where they sprang from, but the horrible thing is, it’s true. I’d seek him out. I’d want to see him, touch him, know he’s alright.

I don’t want to be held against my will. I know these people are bad people. Dangerous. Powerful. Yet…

I suck in a breath.

I want Nikolai so much, I’d come looking for him.

Oh. God.

No…

I’m just confused. Slowly, I stop the pacing I’d been doing half the afternoon and approach the door. The handle turns and opens, and I peek out into the hallways, only to see there’s no one here.

I should run.

I make my way down the stairs, trailing a hand on the banister until I reach the bottom and the big, beautiful foyer. The alarm is armed, as expected, so I decide to just walk, poking about. Eventually, my stomach gurgles its annoyance, and I decide on cereal in the kitchen. I pull out all the ingredients—organic milk, some healthy granola in a fancy ass box, probably hand mixed by virgins to keep it as organic and pure as possible. I locate a bowl and spoon, then pour a glass of water, taking my haul into the silent dining room.

Where is Nikolai? He’s gone, and after my meal, I pop my head into his room out of curiosity. I don’t take more than two steps in, but I do glance around. No camera. I guess he has no need to spy on himself, just me. His presence, though it hangs seductive and there in the air, is old, his spark having been gone for hours.

The room’s neat, masculine. The blinds are up and sunlight streams in on the dark floorboards. He has a fireplace that looks real, a sofa and armchair and coffee table. His huge bed, that arresting, comfortable bed with white sheets and a white, plain quilt made by haphazard hands, sits prominently in the center, and I smile at the slight notion of domesticity.

There are bedside tables, a big bathroom and what looks like dressing room.

What would it be like if this was ours? I’d want to add a feminine touch and—

Ours?

No.

I back out and hurry down the hall, coming to a stop in front of my room.

For some reason, I don’t go in. Instead, I decide to investigate, get the lay of the land in case there’s ever a chance to escape.

That’s what I tell myself.

I mean, I’m nosey, and there’s an instinct in me to always know where the exits are, but here, I don’t try anything that looks like a way out. They’d all be locked, wired, alarmed, and maybe boobytrapped anyway.

I just wander, room to room to room. There’s a gym, a glass atrium, guest rooms, and one room that’s locked. I decide it’s for real torture, BDSM, dark secrets, or weapons. The mental image entertains me for a few moments.

Finally, I discover a room tucked in the back. The sofas in there are old, impossibly comfy looking, and the entire room is covered, floor to ceiling, in books, complete with a ladder that travels along a track. Everything is mismatched in its age and looks, but it’s all quality, and I’m utterly in love.

It’s a library. A real one. Not like the study-library. No, this has no desk, just books and seats and lamps. I lose myself in there, only popping out for a snack when I’m hungry. There are gothic horrors, histories, poetry, thick, impenetrable tomes, modern classics. He has pot boilers and biographies, obscure books and mass market.

The other room I thought might be the library had books that were clearly read, but this is his personal space.

I’m not sure how I know, but the mix of books and the spice of Nikolai is there, just slightly. On a side table is a well-read version of Dante’s The Divine Comedy, a page dog eared where he’s left off. I flick through it, reading bits here and there.

One side is in Italian, the other English. I don’t speak Italian, let alone read it, but as I peruse the English side, I like what I read. There’s something familiar about hell and purgatory that conjures thoughts of Nikolai.

Putting it back carefully, I find a heavy book of art based on Dante’s work. I turn the pages and some of the images—okay, a lot of the images, remind me of Nikolai’s tattoos.

Somehow, it feels a little invasive, so I put the book back. I can come back to it, after all. Instead, I pull out a selection of books. The little demon competitor in me deliberately goes for the opposite of what he sent up to me, and I settle on John Rain and some Jack Ryan. Plus, I grab a book calledA Prayer for the Dyingby Jack Higgins.

I curl on an armchair and start to read.

Later, something jerks me awake and I pant a little, not realizing I’d nodded off. Long shadows fill the room and I listen, but whatever I heard must’ve been the old house.

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