“You’re everything to me, Fiona,” I repeat. “And you’remine.”
“Yours,” she whispers dreamily.
The clouds move in, and a heartbeat later I’m back in the chair, thrown out of her head. She must be waking up. I have my answer. Fiona doesn’t belong to the Order. If she did, there would be something in her head about it, some fear of me or desire to hurt me. All I found in her head was a woman who needed me and melted in my arms like she belonged there
Through slitted eyes, I see her turn on her side and stare directly at me, her arms squeezing that giantstuffed dragon to her chest. Great. Now I’m jealous of a stuffed animal. I do my best to pretend to be asleep. After some time, she sighs and rolls over to her other side. It takes a lot to shake a dragon, but my breath trembles when I release it.
Chapter Twelve
FIONA
You’re everything to me, Fiona. And you’re mine.
I wake hearing Connor’s voice in my head and turn on my side to find him asleep on the chair in the corner. Holy shit, what a dream. This flare and the stress of the past week must be muddling my thinking. It’s too soon for me to be experiencing Stockholm syndrome, so why is my brain producing stories of my captor helping me. Of him holding me. Of him wanting me.
Stupid fucking brain.
For longer than I should, I watch him sleep, and a rush of longing comes over me. Longing for what we had in my dream. His arms. His words. His kiss. I touch my lips.
Flipping over, I turn away from him and give myself a stern talking-to.Fiona, you’re not making any sense right now. Think about something else. Think about yourgoddamned fiancé!
That pulls my thoughts up short. I stare at the engagement ring on my nightstand. Roman’s ring was exactly as Connor described it. Does it share the Latin inscription left at the site of Lucy Vale’s murder? And he shot at me. Oh my God, I can’t even believe I’m considering this, but it’s more than possible… it almost feels likely… that Roman is what Connor says he is, a member of a secret society called the Saint’s Order, a society that could be responsible for Lucy Vale’s murder. But if it’s true, how did I miss the signs?
I wanted to believe Roman was everything I needed him to be. Now I have to face the truth.
Believing what my captor tells me about Roman though doesn’t make Connor someone I can trust. He isn’t human. He’s a dragon, whatever that means. A man with wings. Aside from that, I don’t know anything about the circumstances that brought us to this point. I don’t know the nature of the war between the dragons and the Order, who’s right or who’s wrong, or what motivations might be at play. Furthermore, I don’t immediately care. All I care about is getting free of this place and going home. I can tell both men to go to hell once I get there.
And you can finally write my story.
My entire body lights up at the sound of Alex’s voice. She appears in my imagination, grabbing her purse off the bar, the drive with the photos from her Milk Cult informant safely inside. She’s speaking to me again! Finally.
I need to get back to the motel and pop this into my laptopbefore I can take the next steps. Write it, Fiona!she orders in her MP voice.
I feel her words like a slap across my face and roll onto my back again, my eyes flipping open with a wave of energy I haven’t felt in days.
I know what happens next. I’m ready to write again.
The ceiling here is made of knotty wood. One of the knots looks like a face. A face that’s laughing at me. I’m a prisoner in a cabin in the middle of… who knows where. It’s—I glance at the clock—five a.m. I have nothing to write with. No laptop. No pen or paper. For the first time in over a year, my writer’s block is gone, and I’m in the only situation in the world where I can’t do anything about it.
Clunk. I hear the footrest on the recliner fold down and quickly shut my eyes again, pretending I’m asleep. I don’t think I can face Connor after that dream. Just the cucumber-and-mint scent of him causes something low in my belly to flutter. Footsteps cross the room, and then the door opens and closes again. He’s gone.
Opening my eyes, I try to sit up in bed, expecting my body to hurt as it has the past few days, expecting to have to pay for yesterday’s walk and all the emotional currency I’ve spent since I’ve been here. Among people with disorders like mine, there’s a metaphor called spoon theory to describe our limited energy resources. I only have so many spoons in a day, and simple things like eating or self-care use up many of them. Bottom line is, I should be short on spoons after everything that’s happened. But I don’t hurt. I feel better. A lot better. Cautiously, I draw mylegs up and over the side of the bed. So much better. I’ve never recovered from a flare this quickly and thoroughly, even after days of bed rest. What the hell?
I only hope it’s not a fluke.
I hobble to the bathroom, noticing my balance is better and I can stand up straighter than before. I can’t resist the lure of the shower. My hair is still caked with hairspray, and I know the heat will further loosen up my body after my being in bed for so long. A groan of pleasure escapes me as I step into the spray and pull the curtain closed, pleasantly surprised to see some high-end shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in the shower rack. I help myself, lathering my hair with an impossible level of energy. I don’t just feel better; I feel good!
I’m in the middle of rinsing my hair when I hear the door open. My breath catches and I freeze. Images of the Viking drawing back the curtain and stepping into the spray fill my head, and things low within me clench hungrily at the idea. I touch my lips again, thinking about the dream. The dream but I’m healthy. The dream but we kiss and then?—
He clears his throat. “Just leaving some fresh clothes for you on the counter.” His voice sounds strained.
“Uh, thanks.” I run a hand over my breast, my wet skin smooth as silk beneath my palm. My nipples have formed hard peaks at the sound of his voice. What the fuck? It’s like the tone is caressing me from the inside, the perfect vibration to pluck something needy strung tight within me. I lean the back of my head against the shower wall and trace where I feel the vibration, along the space between my breasts, down my stomach, under my navel,to where it ends between my legs. God, that voice. That smell. Rivulets of pleasure tracing down my skin become sensual torture.
“Oh, and I’ve left something else for you on the, uh… bed.” His voice comes again, this time lower, grittier, more breathless.
“Okay.” I concentrate on controlling my own breath, the ache between my legs growing more intense. I rub circles across my clit to ease the throb.
“If you see another man in the cottage today, it’s just my employee, Zaire. He’s going to be joining us for a while.”
