by Celia Crown
The Possessive Convict
Celia Crown
Copyright © 2020 by Celia Crown
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are from the author's imagination or folklore, legends, and general myths.
The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, and locales, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.
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Contents
The Possessive Convict
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Author’s other works!
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WARNING: This contains sensitive material that will be triggering to some, reader discretion is advised. Emotional Manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome, and Graphic Violence.
The Possessive Convict
by Celia Crown
Sergei’s an escaped convict. Nia’s a flower shop girl.
Their worlds should’ve never connected, instead, it collided. She’s a good girl, innocent and void of stains—he’s attracted to that decadence.
She leads a simple life, one that he had rudely disrupted with his icy blue eyes and warping commands. Nia fought the attraction for the dying man, but the hostile fondness in his gaze lured her into his sweet snare.
Each hesitant step turned bold strides into a side that she discovered about her.
He taints her with doting antagonism and motivated manipulation.
Nia never stood a chance.
Chapter One
Nia
“May I trouble you for a hand?”
I was only gone for an hour.
I got back to the flower shop to find the back door broken and a man sitting against the wall—his orange jumpsuit stained with caked blood and shallow gashes on his skin.
A prison jumpsuit.
Oh, no. This is one of the prisoners who’ve been on the news for the past week.
Five convicted felons had escaped from one of the biggest supermax prisons and vanished into thin air. Not a single inmate has been caught.
A flurry of frantic thoughts clamors in my mind. None that made much sense as panic sets into the delicate curve of my shoulders. I instinctively draw them in to protect my neck.
It’s an animalistic compulsion.
“Please do not make me hurt you, but I will if I must.”
I flinch at the drop of temperature in the room. His words affect me more than they should. He’s the one with an actively bleeding injury, and I’m at the doorway. I could run out the door while screaming for help.
I don’t do what’s the most obvious choice. Instead, I pick the cowardly choice of rooting my feet on the ground.
The man reeks of murderous intent. His blue eyes disassemble the gorgeous ray of sunshine through the windows, and the color crushes the sky’s stunning clarity.
It’s the most hypnotic blue that I’ve ever seen.
My stomach knots up at the ruggedly handsome man’s silence. My heart drops into the pit of my gut when he smiles, so utterly terrifying and hauntingly beguiling.
Unmistakably, he can kill me.
“I understand it is a bit to take in, but I must remind you that this is an urgent matter, little girl.”
I nearly choke.
Scorching heat sweeps over the vulnerable patch of skin, the hotness cutting deep into my pulse as I hold back another flighty shiver.
I force my legs to move and spin around. A tiny voice in my head whispers that it’s the purest form of submission to turn my back on an enemy. It’s not wrong, but the strong gaze on the back of my head deters me from making a run out the door.
I forgot where the first-aid kit is stored. I rarely use it, but I do remember seeing it. My fingers shake with clamminess as I search the compartments below the register.
A resounding crunch startles me. The noise is too close, and the shadow that looms ominously over my head leaves no room for guessing.
He’s behind me.
I swallow thickly as my scalp itches desperately for his biting gaze to disappear.
I press the kit to my chest in the hope that the sharp edges will distract me. His stare had gone down to the base of my neck, and I solemnly wish I didn’t have my hair up on this hot summer day.
My knees knock together as I slowly turn to face his legs, and my eyes involuntarily trace the bright-colored jumpsuit.
It’s hideous, but he made it indecent. The simple change in the attire comes from the innocuous rolled-up sleeves.
I’ve never seen anything as intricate as the black ink on his skin, and the scars littered on him don’t take away the delicate strokes of the lines.
Then, I remember. He’s still bleeding. The patch of wet blood continues to soak through the rough material.
He leans over me at the same moment his knees drop to the ground. My first thought is that he’s fainting from the blood loss, but he secures his weight on his palm as the intrusiveness of his blue eyes shows no weakness.
Blood drips through his fingers as he holds his stomach. He turns his body and falls heavily onto the underside of the counter.
“Apologies for frightening you,” he rasps throatily. “I merely want to know where you keep the bandages.”
I manage a weak nod as my voice splinters. Broken noises slither out, and it fills the dead air around us.
Ignoring the uncomfortable weight on my knees, I put the box on the ground and stare at the daunting crimson. My useless hands stay still as he works to tear the buttons from the seams. One of the clear buttons pops off and rolls away while another one hangs loosely by the thread.
The white shirt underneath is tattered beyond repair. Other than the small flicker of annoyance at the corner of his lips, this nameless man doesn’t seem too bothered by the wound.
I’m bothered by the amount of blood. I’m just a flower shop girl. The worst I’ve seen is blood from a pricked finger.
Rose thorns are dangerous.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper cautiously.
I meet his speculating gaze through my lashes. It’s a while before he blinks, and I exhale at that exact moment, my heart racing at the lack of oxygen as I keep my eyes down.
It didn’t feel right to look him in the eyes, and it’s as if I’m undeserving of the attention given his powerful status.
What status?
I don’t know this man.
It’s not about what I know, it’s more about the unbearable air of dominance radiating from his massive body.
“I need you to retrieve a towel and a bowl of water.” He clicks his tongue as he presses the bundled white shirt on the gash.
His wide chest heaves, the ink on his skin expands, and the intensity of the design never fails to keep its enigma.
I block out the primitive urge to flee, to run away from this situation. I don’t, and it’s for the same reason I didn’t attempt to run away the first time.
I return to his slumped body with a stack of towels and a bowl of lukewarm water. I didn’t give a second thought to the temperature; it’s just the first rush of water that blasts out of the faucet.<
br />
“I need you to clean the wound,” he mentions.
His voice had weakened, but it still reserves that commanding undertone.
I soak the towel in the water and hesitate over the wound. His bloodied hand grasps my trembling one and pushes the wet towel down. A hiss of pain breaches his clenched teeth; the stormy glimmer of rage glows through the cerulean blues.
His big hand swallows mine, and his grip is harsh when I try to pull back.
“The blood,” I squeak. “It’s not stopping.”
“It will,” he sneers cogently.
He knocks his skull against the sliding compartment door; the dull noise didn’t sound too pleasant as he closes his eyes.
I catch the drop of saliva that hurls into the back of my throat. I am not going to let a coughing fit be the catalyst for my death because I moved my hand.
His clutch tightens, and a snarl rumbles through his chest. The muscles on his bare torso stiffen, and the veins rolling through his arms pop up. The grooves of his muscles cast sharp lines as he stifles a pained growl.
A film of sweat litters across his hairline and his face pinches with discomfort again. It feels like forever until he relinquishes the conquering grip on my hand.
“Where are my manners?” he murmurs gruffly. “I’m Sergei, little girl.”
My dry tongue glides across my bottom lip as a distraction from the pungent reek of copper. It’s a sickening mix with the sweet flower petals.
“Nia, sir,” I peep brokenly.
I would rather be overly polite than accidentally offend him. He may be wounded, but he’s still more than capable of wrapping his stained hand around my neck.
“Nia,” he purrs as my name rolls off his tongue.
There is a faint accent, but I’m not positive. It’s hard to focus when he’s securitizing every breath I take.
“Bulgarian roots,” he reckons. “I guess that is not your full name.”
I shudder at the pinpointed truth in his speculation. “Mom’s side is half Bulgarian, and she wanted me to be named Evgenia. She picked ‘Nia’ so I would not be alienated from other kids.”
Dad didn’t care what I was named as long as it’s pronounceable. Mom was more attached to her heritage, so the decision fell onto her with input from her family.
“How’d you know?” I ask in one breath.
“The family portrait,” he says as he nudges his chin towards the picture hanging on the wall behind the register.
The owner of this flower shop is a family friend who had gotten injured and needed help around the shop. He lets me use the room upstairs as my bedroom to save money on rent and even offered to put the picture up for me.
His generosity is never taken advantage of by me. I work hard to repay him and slacking off at work would be disrespectful after all his kindness.
I keep quiet and let him move my hand to see the wound. There is still a small trickle of blood, but it did stop gushing out. The towel is irreparable with the amount of blood it soaked up.
Sergei takes a new towel and submerges it in the water, swooshing over the rim, and splashing onto my bare thighs. He discards the first towel and presses the new one to the wound, wiping the congealed blood on his rippling abs.
This is not the time to admire his strong body.
“Put pressure on it.” Sergei passes a pad of white cotton to me.
I do as he says, pressing it against his wound. He inhales sharply and clenches his jaw to prevent the deep growl from echoing in the room.
The cotton did a better job of cleaning the wound than I expected. Sergei breaks the seal of the alcohol wipe to crudely clean the wound.
Dumbfounded, I stare at the rough treatment before he tosses the tainted wipe onto the crimson towel. He regards me for a moment, and then he goes to work on applying a new cotton pad.
He hands me the roll of gauze and peels his back away from the compartment flap. I understand the silent command and begin to unravel the thin gauze.
I mumble a soft apology and lean into his space to wrap the gauze around his stomach while he holds the cotton pad in place. There’s a scent of freshly cut grass and a hint of pine needles on him.
Tying the small knot is challenging, even with my small fingers. The result is crooked, but it does secure the cotton pad in place.
When he examines the dressing, I start to inch back to give him space. My body is a bit reluctant to absorb a watered-down version of his scent after getting a lungful of the rich musk.
“Well done, little girl,” he praises casually.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I shrink into my shoulders. I dodge his inquisitive gaze as I find myself looking at the bottom of his shoe.
It’s packed with dried mud and layers of brown blood.
I don’t think it’s his.
He follows my unblinking stare. “There was an unfortunate turn of events.”
“I probably shouldn’t know about it,” I admit guardedly.
“You shouldn’t,” he agrees. “You’ve already been complicit enough.”
“Complicit?” I blurt.
“Aiding an escaped convict,” he surmises as his blue eyes darken vilely. “Don’t be naive, little girl.”
“I’m not—” I stammer indignantly. “You threatened me.”
“I did,” he muses under his breath as he chuckles. “I’d hate to follow through on my words.”
Sergei breathes deeply and holds a hand protectively over the wound. “You will be in trouble with the law, and the only way out of this is to deny my existence.”
“I can’t,” I mumble defiantly with a frown. “You’re right here.”
“Well, I will be looking forward to your performance.” He tilts his head with that menacingly perfect smile.
My jaw goes slack as my words turn into strangled noises. A pressing question vanishes from my mind when the bell attached to the door screeches.
It is supposed to be a beautiful chiming sound, but it comes out like a banshee’s wail. Exaggeration is unwanted at a time like this when my heart is lodging in my throat.
“H-hello!” I shriek pitifully as I jump up.
The customer jerks back at the volume of my voice as I stand unnaturally straight, my hand hidden behind me while Sergei’s blood congeals.
“Hey,” the woman greets me slowly.
She strolls up to the counter, and I fight the need to glance down. Sergei is a big man; she would be able to see his legs and the top of his head if she were to lean over just an inch.
It’s a good thing the cash register counter has a big display of sample flower catalogs. All the fake flowers are labeled with their name and scent. The description of the smell is subjective, so there is a warning attach inside the glass.
“How can I help you?” I ask, clearing the embarrassment from my throat.
“Hi,” she begins. “I need to make an order for Casablanca lilies, enough for two hundred people for my wedding.”
From what I recall, Casablanca lilies are one of the most expensive. They are common, but few people in this town can afford them.
“For that number of flowers, it’s a custom order, and the down payment is half the total amount.”
The woman doesn’t make a fuss like some customers do the week before Mother’s Day. She takes out her checkbook and a gold fountain pen as she waits for me to calculate the total.
I take the details of her wedding to see how much I should order. As she’s nitpicking over the specifics of her wedding, I realize that she’s the mayor’s daughter. There was a massive announcement of her engagement earlier this week.
“Wait, take out one order and substitute it.” She slaps her hand on the counter.
I jerk in surprise as my pen stops scribbling on the order sheet.
“I want you to make a bouquet from cabbage leaves.” The woman huffs and aggressively crosses her arms over her chest.
“Ma’am—”
She lifts an arm and waves. “I know it�
�s passive-aggressive, but it’s for my fiancé’s ex-girlfriend.”
Her nostrils flare angrily. “She can take her vegan tempeh up her pompous ass.”
I smile awkwardly at her rising temper as I hold the pen tightly in my hand. I lick my lips and swallow the anxious clump of nerves.
“No offense to you, but I’m not wasting my money on that bitch.”
I keep my best customer satisfaction smile while I shake my head. “It’s store policy to only sell flowers, ma’am. I can’t make you a cabbage bouquet.”
It’s more ridiculous when the words come out of my mouth.
“What?” she shrieks. “You really can’t make an exception?”
“No,” I say with another shake of my head. “I can help you choose—”
“What’s that?” she asks as her face goes flat with suppressed emotion.
I follow her finger to the edge of the counter. It’s smeared with oxidized blood, five streaks that represent Sergei’s fingers.
“That—”
I sink my teeth into the side of my cheek as a hot hand dances up my bare thigh, the rough skin caresses the delicate skin as it settles with a threatening grip. The placement on the inner and softer part of my thigh has a deterring effect on my possible cry for help.
I shudder violently as his thumb strokes the fragile skin with haunting circles while his fingers brand the surrounding skin with expected bruises.
“Paint,” I whisper tersely. “I was painting the back room.”
The excuse doesn’t stop the grasp on my thigh, but it does fool the woman as she shrugs her shoulders.
“Cool,” she quips amiably. “How much in total?”
I spit out the final calculation, and she writes a check with a messy signature. She takes a copy of the invoice and skips out of the shop. I hold my breath until the last clattering of the bell to jerk away from Sergei.
His hand falls as he regards me with blank features. The easy stretching of his chest suggests that the wound doesn’t bother him as much as before.
