“I want the life I built for myself.” I defy him. “I don’t want anything from you. I want to go home and never see you again.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not happening. You’re mine. Nothing will change that.”
“Saying I’m yours doesn’t make it true,” I shoot back. “I won’t willingly give myself to you.”
“You signed the contract,” he reminds me.
“I signed a contract with the man I met at the café. I signed myself over to the Dane that I knew. The Dane who promised to protect me and honor my consent. You are not that man.”
A shadow flutters at his jaw. “You didn’t meet me at the café. You don’t even remember the night we met because you drank too much and blacked it out. Do you know how maddening itwas to see you all those mornings, and you looked at me like I was just another customer? Like we hadn’t shared something unique?”
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
“We met at the bar a few nights after I moved to Charleston. You told me your dark desires, and I let you see a glimpse of the real me. You wanted me then, and I only let you go when I realized you were too drunk. I didn’t want you to regret being with me.
“So, I found out where you worked. I approached you the next morning, and you had no idea who I was. What we had shared. What we could have been so much sooner if you hadn’t been so stubbornly evasive.”
My mouth opens and then closes. I’m not sure what to say in response to this new revelation. It’s not completely unbelievable that I might’ve had too much to drink on a night out; I like a cocktail or three to ease my inhibitions when I go dancing.
I think back to that first morning I met him—the first time I remember meeting him.
He’d acted so strange at the café. Intense and familiar in a way that unnerved me.
But then, I convinced myself that I’d just been nervous because he’s so gorgeous. I could barely look at him when he came in for his daily Americano because he’s intimidatingly handsome.
Now I know that he made me nervous because deep down, part of me knew he was a predator. I have no idea what happened between us at the bar, but it must’ve been dark enough to set my senses on high alert in his presence. That giddy, fizzy hit of adrenaline had made me enamored with him on our first date.
I didn’t recognize the thrill for what it was: a primal warning of danger.
My mind catches on something odd that he just said. “And how did you know where I worked?”
His gaze cuts away from mine for a heartbeat, and then his eyes narrow with something like defiance.
“I followed you home when you left the bar. You stumbled off before we could truly get to know each other. How else was I supposed to find you again?”
He makes stalking me sound so reasonable.
“You could have simply asked for my number, like a normal man.”
His beautiful face hardens to a grim mask. “I am not a normal man. I thought you knew that. I thought you accepted me, just like I accept everything that you are. You’re perfect for me, Abigail. Why are you denying us now?”
I shake my head. He’s clearly insane, completely deluded. He seems incapable of understanding how stalking and assaulting me was a violation on the deepest level.
“There is nous.” I try to speak as calmly as possible when my heart is hammering against my ribcage. “You’re not the man I thought you were. Your belief that I love you won’t change that.”
He bares his teeth at me like a cornered predator, and for a moment, I think he’s going to hurt me.
I cringe, and suddenly, his weight is gone.
He’s standing three feet away from where I lie sprawled on the bed, completely disoriented by his abrupt decision to release me.
“You’ll want to get freshened up before I show you around the estate,” he says, the perfectly composed, genteel host. He tips his head in the direction of an ensuite bathroom. “Go on. I’ll wait here for you.”
Now that he’s mentioned it, I become acutely aware of the fact that I’ve neglected my basic needs. How long was I unconscious?
My cheeks heat, and I duck past him into the bathroom.
Once I’m a bit more composed, I splash cold water onto my flushed face. The awful weight of my new reality presses down on my shoulders like a ton of lead, and it’s all I can do to keep my shaking knees from buckling. I grip the sink for support. My knuckles are almost as white as the porcelain.
