Page 32 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

Someone he won’t hate as much as he hates me.

As he pushes open the front door and turns sideways to carry me through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of curious faces staring up at us from the street. There are several men and a middle-aged woman, and for one absurd moment, I’m tempted to beg them for help, to plead with them to save me. The urge fades as quickly as it comes. These people aren’t some innocent passersby. They’re employees of a sadistic arms dealer, and they’re fully complicit in whatever fate is about to befall me.

So I stay silent as Lucas carries me into the house and once again shuts the door behind him with his foot. He’s not looking at me, so I use the opportunity to study him, noting the granite set of his jaw. He’s still furious, the rage radiating off him like heat off a flame. It makes me wonder why he’s so mad. Surely this sort of thing—making Esguerra’s enemies pay—is routine for him. I would’ve expected cold detachment, not this volcanic anger.

Come to think of it, I would’ve expected him to take me to some warehouse or a storage shed, some place they wouldn’t mind dirtying with blood and bodily fluids. Instead, I find myself inside a residential home, albeit one with only basic furnishings. One black leather sofa, a flatscreen TV, gray carpet, and white walls—the room he carries me through is not luxurious, but it’s certainly no torture chamber. Could this be Lucas’s house? And if so, why am I here?

I don’t have time to dwell on it for long because he brings me into a large, white-tiled bathroom. There is a massive tub, a glass-walled shower stall, and a sink next to a toilet.

Definitely not a torture chamber.

“Why did you bring me here?” My voice is hoarse, scratchy from disuse. I haven’t spoken since Esguerra’s men stopped me from screaming back in Moscow. “It’s your house, isn’t it?”

Lucas’s jaw muscle flexes, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he carries me into the shower stall, sets me down on the tiled floor, and pulls out a key. Grabbing my handcuffs, he unlocks them and detaches them from the ankle cuffs, which he unlocks next. Then he yanks me to my feet.

“You need a fucking shower,” he says harshly. “Take those clothes off. Now.”

My knees buckle, my leg muscles unable to bear the sudden strain of standing, even as my aching back weeps in gratitude at finally being straight again. My head spins from chronic hunger and exhaustion, and it’s only Lucas’s grip on my arm that prevents me from sinking back down to the floor.

A shower? He wants me to take a shower?Before I can process that odd demand, he lets out an impatient noise and grabs the zipper of my jumpsuit, pulling it down roughly.

“Wait, I can—” I try to reach for the zipper with one trembling hand, but it’s too late. Lucas spins me around, flattening my face against the shower wall, and yanks the jumpsuit down to my knees, leaving me wearing nothing more than a pair of loose, high-waisted panties and a stretched-out sports bra—the only underwear allowed at the prison. Within a second, he rips those off me as well and spins me around to face him.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.” His fingers catch my jaw in a hard grip as he holds my upper arm with his other hand. “You’ll do what I say, understand?” His eyes glint with icy rage and something more.

Lust.

He still wants me.

My heart pounds in a furious rhythm as the fact that I’m naked in front of him again sinks in. I should’ve expected this, but for some reason, I didn’t. In my mind, what happened between us before was entirely separate from the punishment he’s about to dole out, but I should’ve known better.

For men like Lucas Kent, violence and sex go hand in hand.

“Do you understand?” he repeats, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw, and I blink affirmatively, the only movement I’m capable of. Apparently, that’s enough, because he releases me and steps back.

“Wash yourself,” he orders, stepping out of the stall and closing the glass door behind him. “You have five minutes.”

And crossing his arms in front of his massive chest, he leans back against the wall and stares at me, waiting.

17

Lucas

She reaches for the faucet, her entire body shaking, and I see the effort each movement is costing her. She’s weak and thin, infinitely more fragile than the last time I saw her, and the fact that this disturbs me enrages me even more.

I expected to feel lust and hatred, to revel in her suffering even as I slaked my hunger on her deceitful flesh. I planned to treat her like my fucktoy until my obsession with her faded, and then do whatever it took to find the puppet masters pulling her strings.

I didn’t count on this pale, bedraggled creature and how seeing her this way would make me feel.

Did they starve her? Apparently so, because I can see each of her ribs. Her stomach is concave, her hipbones are jutting out, and her limbs are painfully skinny. She must’ve lost at least fifteen pounds in the last two months, and she’d already been slender.

She manages to turn on the water, and I force myself to remain still as she reaches for the shampoo. She’s not looking at me, all her attention focused on her task, and I feel a fresh wave of rage, mixed with lust and that disconcerting something.

Something that feels suspiciously like protectiveness.

Fuck.I clench my teeth, determined to resist the bizarre urge to step into the shower and gather her against me. Not to fuck her, though my body is eager to do that as well, but to hold her.

To hold and comfort her.

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