Page 46 of Vicious Captor

Asshole. I fucking despise you, I think as he brings his mouth to mine for a lingering kiss that makes me sigh.

He pulls away almost as if he can hear my thoughts and peers into my eyes. Then he grows thoughtful, his brows pinched tightly together. “I want a baby, Lou.”

It takes me so completely by surprise to hear what he’s just said, I’m left speechless for a few seconds. But when I do speak, it’s in outrage.

“I’m not going to have a baby. Are you crazy?!” I try to shove him off, but he weighs as much as an ox.

Brushing the hair from my temples with his thumbs, he says sweetly, “We can name him Finnegan, after my dad.”

“Jesus, get off me.” The moment he rolls off, I’m standing, shoving my legs into my pants. “I’m on birth control.”

“We’ve been together for several days. I know you’re not on the pill.” He tugs his zipper up and grins.

I shake my head in disbelief at his ignorance. “For someone so damn smart, you don’t know a lot about women. For one, we don’t like to be kidnapped.”

“I’m sure it depends on the kidnapper.”

Again, something else he’s said that stuns me for a few seconds before I reply, “And two, there are many types of birth control. I have a vaginal ring.”

He arches his brows as he thinks about something. “It could have been dislodged. I’m big, princess. I get deep.”

I blink at him as I process his statement, because, yes, he’s large and anything but a gentle lover. I actually have no idea if the thing can be dislodged.

My stomach sinks at the very idea of being pregnant. “I can’t, Rowan. Don’t force me to have your child. I’ll just hate you more.”

His smile vanishes and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he begins to pick up the items that fell.

I gnaw on my lower lip, feeling oddly guilty and I don’t even know why.

“Rowan, I—” I pause as my gaze lands on several pictures scattered across the floor. “What the hell?” Taking a step closer, I’m horrified by the gory crime scenes. “What…”

Rowan quickly gathers the photographs and documents and shoves them back into the manila folder. “I’m sorry. I was going over them last night.”

“Over death photos?” I question.

“They’re my uncles.”

Frowning, I ask, “What made you want to look at them?”

“I didn’t want to look at them.” He sighs and sits back down. “I needed to.”

“Why?”

He runs his palm over his face. “I don’t know. Morbid curiosity. I couldn’t sleep last night and decided to get some work done. When I opened the drawer to search for a pen, the folder was lying there. So I looked.”

“The Ferryman did it?”

Nodding, he blows out another breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “They were the first and most brutal of the Ferryman murders.”

“How can you be sure it was him, though?”

“The pennies.” Giving me a weary glance, he reaches for the folder and tugs one of the photographs from it. “The Ferryman’s calling card is the 2009 pennies. He leaves them wherever he’s been.”

I stare at the picture of the dead man, his torso sliced so severely, his guts are spilling onto the mattress.

The coins would be a payment from the Ferryman for the life he took.

Averting my gaze, I cup my palm over my mouth to keep from heaving. “That’s awful.”

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