She hesitates. Then she exhales and looks away. "I've done some coding. Built mods for games I play online. But this is different. This is a financial institution. If I get caught?—"
"You won't get caught."
"You don't know that. Making a Minecraft skin isn't the same as busting through a firewall of a secure financial institution's website." Her tone is holding to the edgy tone, but her eyes are uncertain and searching. She's afraid of me.
"I know you'll do whatever it takes to keep your family safe." I straighten and cross my arms. "So stop wasting my time and get it done."
"Yes, sir," she says, but she stands there staring at me like a frightened animal afraid to move for fear they'll be eaten.
I notice a twitch of her lip, then the way her eyelashes bat slowly. Riley Maddox isn't just afraid of me. There's a single trace of attraction there. I notice it in the way her eyes study my face—the same way they memorize those lines of data on the computer screen. She's such an easy read.
"Why are you standing here?" I ask her, and her mouth opens and shuts like a fish taking in water, but she says nothing. "Do you need more instructions? Or maybe you need to be punished…" I step closer, feeling something stir inside me at the idea of really punishing her the way I know I would enjoy so much.
"Is that what you want, Riley Maddox? You want me to show you what I do to women who disobey me?"
The vein in her temple throbs, but her tongue draws over her lip, moistening it. Then she shakes her head. "No, sir…" she says, but the way her hand flutters to her neckline and toys with her collar shows me how flustered she is.
"I suggest you go work miracles with your fingers now, because you're going to have one very unhappy man to deal with if you don't. And you haven't seen me be anything but calm yet." I reach up, curl a strand of hair around her ear, and smile the most sardonic smile I can muster. "And the monster inside me desperately wants to come out and play."
Riley's eyes widen marginally and she nods, backing away before turning and leaving my office abruptly. The door almost slams shut, and I chuckle to myself as I sit back down at my desk and watch her flee the scene of her near meltdown.
I bet if I checked, I'd find her panties are soaked and her little slit is dripping. But before I have any fun with my new apparent plaything, I need her to do her fucking job.
That woman is infuriating and defensive and downright stubborn at times. But that's the exact sort of woman who makes a good toy. They bite and scratch and fight back, and that's if they're consenting.
Something tells me Ms. Maddox would be the exact sort of woman I'd find very enjoyable if I let myself do that sort of thing with her.
Who knows? If she can't produce results, she might be good for more than just numbers, after all.
7
RILEY
I've been in this house for seven full days now, watching the hours bleed together while I work through the banker's digital maze and wait for an opening that never comes. The spare bedroom has become my cell, though Rafe never locks the door. I sleep in fits, wake up disoriented, and spend my waking hours staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurs.
Every morning, I tell myself today will be different. Today, I'll find a way out. Today, Rafe will leave long enough for me to slip through the cracks, but he never does. And let's be honest. Even if he did, I'm not sure I have the guts to run anyway. He might be able to get to Lila before I even found a way to make a call home to warn her.
As much as it pisses me off and terrifies me, I can't ignore the other undercurrent I experience every time he walks into a room I'm in and my body feels the gentle pull of gravity. He's demanding and bossy and arrogant and the exact sort of man who could wrap his hand around my neck and squeeze enough to make my vision blur while I whisper his name in pleasure.
I push the thought away and swing my legs out of bed. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I reach for the sweatshirt Rafe left draped over the chair last night. It's too big and not my color, but it's warm and it smells like cologne. I pull it on and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The house is quiet this early in the morning as the sun rises slowly through the windows. Snow has been falling on and off for the past two days, dusting the back yard in white. I glance toward the living room as I pass but it's empty. There's no sign of life yet, and not so much as a fire in the hearth, either.
Maybe he's still asleep.
The thought sends a flicker of hope through my chest. If he's asleep, I could check the doors. Test the locks. Figure out if there's a way to?—
I stop myself before the fantasy can take root. Even if I got out, where would I go? He has people watching my sister. He said so. And I believe him. Men who can strip a car down to its frame in under an hour don't bluff about surveillance.
But a girl can dream, right?
The kitchen is small and tidy, the counters clear except for the coffee maker. I move toward it and pull a mug from the cabinet above. My hands go through the motions automatically—filter, grounds, water—while my mind drifts. Today is Tuesday. Thanksgiving is two days away. By now my family's probably deep into preparations. My mother will be brining the turkey, my father will be organizing the folding tables in the heated garage, and my sister will be obsessing over centerpieces and place cards because everything has to be perfect for her wedding in five weeks.
It's almost a crippling sense of fear and despondency that comes over me as I watch the snow dance in the wind outside. As far as my family knows, I'm just being held up in the city a few days. They have no clue I may never come back, because I'm not stupid enough to believe Rafe will actually let me go—not after the things I've seen on his financial documents.
This man is dirty. I'm talking bottom of the grease trap in a fast food restaurant gross. Extortion, laundering, smuggling, and if my assumptions are correct, even the slave trade. It's like there's no evil he hasn't touched or taken part of, and he'll never let me live with this knowledge. That thought is sobering.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the bitter smell of brewing grounds, and I lean against the counter and stare at the back door. It's ten feet away. Maybe less. A deadbolt and a handle. That's all that stands between me and the outside world. Of course, I know all the logical reasons it will never work, which is why all I can do is move toward it and look out, pressing my forehead against the cold glass.
