The command, combined with his fingers on my clit, sends me over the edge. I come again, harder this time, screaming into the sheets while he holds me through it.
He follows moments later with a Russian curse I don't understand, collapsing beside me.
We lie together panting, both slick with sweat, hearts racing. The bedding is a complete disaster. I probably look worse—hair a mess, body marked, thoroughly used.
I turn my head to look at him.
He's stunning like this. Unguarded, sated, hair in disarray from my hands. The harsh lines of his face softened slightly. He looks younger. Almost peaceful.
Then I remember again.
The police. The fact that I might have destroyed everything.
I need to tell him. He needs to know. Needs to prepare, or run, or—do whatever he has to. I can't let him get blindsided.
But how do I say it?Hey, by the way, I called the cops on you, and they might show up any second.How do I admit I tried to leave and immediately regretted it?
Maybe the driver didn't report it. Maybe I'm panicking over nothing. Maybe?—
"Lila." His tone is low and serious. He's looking at me with an expression I can't read. "I need to tell you?—"
My heart stutters. "What?"
He opens his mouth, and I catch a flicker in his eyes—vulnerable, almost like?—
"I gave the driver a note," I blurt out before he can continue. "A note asking for help. Asking him to call the police."
Everything changes.
The satisfied lover vanishes instantly, replaced by the killer I saw that first night in the diner. The one who walked in, bleeding and dangerous. Capable of anything.
His hand shoots out, cups my jaw, and forces me to maintain eye contact. Not gentle. Not the way he touched me seconds ago.
"You tried to leave me?" His voice is deadly soft.
"I was scared—" The words come out in a rush. "I didn't know what I wanted, I panicked, I?—"
"When?"
"Before dinner. Hours ago. But I regret it, I?—"
"Hours ago." He releases my jaw, sits up, and runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck. FUCK."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean?—"
He's off the bed in an instant, pacing like a caged animal. "Do you have any idea what you've done? If that driver went to the police, if they're coming here?—"
"I don't think he did. I mean, it's been hours and no one's come?—"
He stops pacing to turn to look at me. "That's what's bothering me. It's been hours. The cops should've been here already."
"Maybe they're building a case? Getting a warrant or whatever?"
"That's not how kidnapping reports work, Lila." His voice is edged with a dangerous note. "Someone reports a captive, and they respond immediately. They don't wait or build cases. They act."
"Then maybe he didn't report it. Maybe he thought it was a prank."
"Or something else happened." He's pacing again, and I can see his mind working. "What did the driver look like?"
