Page 35 of Captive Bride

She’s light and lithe and perfectly curvy. My cock strains hard against the tuxedo pants I’m wearing.

I think of how it would feel to have her sink to her knees in front of me here and beg to have my cock inside her.

Instead, her eyes fill with tears, and it breaks my fucking heart.

“I can’t believe you used me like that. I’m not going anywhere with you.” She says the words like she’s trying to be brave but I can hear the tremble in her voice.

I grab a Louis Vuitton duffel bag and start to throw her clothes into it.

“Fine, if you don’t want to pack, then I’ll do it for you.”

I swipe some garments off the hangers in her closet and push them into the bag, and then I go to her bathroom and empty the cabinets for her. I see that she’s only wearing heels, and so I grab a couple pairs of boots, and we go.

I’m nothing if not a caretaker. Even during a kidnapping, I make sure my baby has all she needs.

That’s enough crap. I can buy her anything else she might need for her extended stay with the Montagues.

“Why don’t you cover up before we go outside?” I ask her.

She stares at me, unmoving.

This girl. My heart is on fire, and electricity courses through my veins. God, how I want to fuck her.

I envision bending her over the tufted ottoman and sinking my cock deep into her virgin pussy. I know she’s a virgin. Isobel Capulet has a reputation, and I doubt if she’s done wrong by it.

“I said I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says calmly.

Her defiance turns me on, but it also makes me angry.

She needs punishment. I’ll be sure to deliver that later.

I grab a white silk robe that I see hanging in her closet and throw it around her shoulders before grabbing her arm to lead her out of the apartment.

I don’t have much time. I have to get this deal done.

Daddy’s little princess was left unguarded, and I found a way in. I’m pretty fucking proud of myself.

“Why are you doing this?” she says as I pull her into the living room.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. Stop asking questions.” I tug at her arm. “Let’s go.”

I take my tuxedo jacket off and put it around her. Who says I’m not a gentleman?

“Say goodbye to your apartment, Isobel. You’ll never see this place again,” I say the words and know it’s the truth.

I will never let her go. She’s good for me—both personally and professionally. She just has to realize it.

She looks around the apartment, her eyes full of tears, but not a single drop falls.

Then she puts her arms into the sleeves of my jacket and says, “Fine. Do what you will with me. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if I live or die.”

Her words pull at my goddamn heartstrings. I don’t want her to feel like that. I want to own her, to claim her, and for her to be happy with me.

We’re a long way away from that, I know.

To her, I’m just a stranger that betrayed her. I’m Tristan Montague, infamous criminal. Why should she trust me?

I can tell she’s upset. Tears threaten to fall.

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