Grand. You? Fancy a pint at the club? The lads miss you
I blow out a breath.
Not tonight. Soon though
I power off my phone and turn backtoward her.
This time, I don't sleep on the floor. I lie beside her, not touching her. But I remember the feel of my palm across her arse, the way she gasped, and my cock aches.
I’ve been up for damn near twenty-four hours now, and my eyes are heavy. I’m fighting sleep. My vision blurs, and my head bobs.
I remember Donovan.You can't run forever, can you?he says in my dream, his voice as clear as if he were standing beside me. And when I wake, I feel as if I've actually seen him, felt his presence.You did it, didn't you? You fucking gobshite. You let her into the dark.
Bianca rolls over, one arm strewn across her face, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow. I give myself the luxury of looking at her for another long while. God, she's beautiful, so innocent and trusting and vulnerable, even in sleep. Thesweetnessof the lass.
I sleep fitfully next to her and wake with my body wound tight with want. I go to the bathroom, use the facilities, and splash some water on my face. I look like shite. I need a good night's sleep.
God, I'm obsessed with this woman. Completely fucking gone on her. It may be the only time in my life I’ve lost control.
Chapter Fourteen
Bianca
I waketo sunlight streaming through vaguely familiar windows and the scent of coffee brewing. For a blissful half second, I forget where I am and wonder why there's the smell of coffee.
No one makes me coffee in the morning.
Then reality crashes back in with the force of a thunderstorm—the cabin, the canopy bed, Ashland's fucking handprint probably still visible on my arse.
Except when I think about that, about being over his lap, about his stern voice and the way he touched me, heat pools low in my belly instead of rage.
No.
No, absolutely fucking not. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the memory of his palm connecting with myskin, the way my body responded—thighs clenching together, my breath hitching.
Was it a whimper, Bianca?Jesus, it was shock. Fear. Something other than what it obviously was.
Great. Am I so needy and desperate that I'm starting to fall for this man?
He took me. He kidnapped me.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
My ankle hurts when I test it, but it's definitely better. Not broken, thankfully—maybe sprained and probably bruised. Just enough to ruin my escape attempt.
Damn it.
I hobble to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Same dark eyes, same pale skin, but my pupils are dilated. My lips look fuller, redder, like I've been kissed.
Stop it, Bianca. Stop it right now.
This is textbook Stockholm syndrome. I've read about it. The theory holds that the captor becomes the protector in the victim's mind. Trauma bonds form.
This is psychology, not attraction.
Except he says he has me here to keep me safe.
Except he's obviously obsessed with me.
