Page 48
Oh.
Interesting.
The room is lined with all kinds of lovely little nightmares: restraints hanging from hooks along the far wall, blades laid out on a steel tray, bottles without labels arranged by size on a shelf.
It looks like a little torture room.
But I know it’s Ilya’s hideout, the place he likes to create his new methods.
How do I know that?
Because I’m a stalker.
And sitting across from the couch I was laid on, one ankle over his knee, is my little prince.
He didn’t let me die.
I believe I probably would have, because that knife definitely had something on it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have collapsed so early. I can fight with several bullets in me, so a knife wound shouldn’t knock me out.
I glance down, lift my shirt up a bit, and find a clean bandage wrapped around my side.
I grin.
From where he’s sitting, Ilya watches my face. His eyes narrow slightly, and he says, “Why are you smirking?”
My gaze lifts to his. “You undressed me, patched me up, and brought me to your private room.” I let the smile deepen. “I’m trying not to feel special.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I saved you because death is a mercy, and you’ve done absolutely fuck-all to deserve my generosity.”
I clear my throat and tip my head. “You still didn’t let me die. Should I consider that progress?”
He nearly scoffs. “If you’re looking for a romantic explanation, try someone else. I have absolutely no interest in encouraging your delusions.”
I lick my lips and push myself to my feet.
It hurts.
Quite a lot, actually.
The knife went in deeper than I’d admit aloud, and the muscles protest the second I straighten. I ignore it. I’ve learned pain is only useful if you let it teach you something, and all this one teaches me is that Ilya doesn’t want me dead.
He stands the moment I do, then he takes one step back.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“You’re going to tear the stitches.”
“I’ll be careful. I’m fine.”
His jaw tightens. “You are not fine. You collapsed an hour ago. And before your ego starts doing cartwheels, I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about my handiwork. It took me a while to stitch you up, so I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to rip them open every five minutes.”
“Two hours,” I correct, glancing at the small digital clock on the shelf. “You’ve been watching me for a while.”
He doesn’t answer, but I can see the annoyance on his face. It’s really adorable.
I look around the room again, letting my gaze linger on the restraints. They’re leather. Well-made. The kind that don’t leave marks if you know how to use them properly. I’d like to use a few of them on him. I have the perfect image in my head: him tied down while I drive my cock into him and he—nope. Stop. Control. I have to have control.
