by Amelia Wilde
I know what she’s to be traded for.
Of course it’s a risk. No one could deny that—not even me. It’s always a risk to interfere with a contract in progress. In a way, however, I’d be doing her a kindness. A dark laugh bubbles up and escapes me, and her breathing quickens again. I’d thought about music but I’m too obsessed with that little hitch and fall to add any extra noise over the hum of the road under my tires.
No. I won’t be taking her to the rendezvous point.
My little princess will be coming home with me.
I speed past the exit at ninety miles an hour, daring any county cop to pull me over. When making a reckless choice, the key is to do it quickly, with confidence. You don’t trundle past the exit like a coward.
So I don’t.
My own home is twenty miles down the road, on its own separate property. It’s not connected in any way to the family compound. It’s always been my preference to remain independent in some ways. That independence is necessary in a life like mine. Building my security forces is a game of high-stakes chess. My family isn’t the type to look kindly on lapses in loyalty. They would, without a doubt, characterize my life as devoid of loyalty if they knew how far I’d taken things.
Another mewl from the trunk alerts me that the princess is mildly uncomfortable. I don’t blame her for the sound. I like the sound. It makes me wish I’d tied her wrists to her ankles, too. That would be fucking delicious. Maybe I’ll do it later, or maybe...
Maybe there’s a game to be played here, too.
My vision sharpens when I think of it and my cock jumps painfully.
There are many games to be played between the two of us.
There’s another shift in the air, so strong that for a moment I think the window’s come open. What the fuck is that? None of the windows are open. Nothing is wrong with the car, no alert lights, nothing. I check the rearview mirror. No lights there, either. No telltale silhouettes of police cars anywhere on the turnarounds. I ease the SUV back to eighty and turn the brights on.
Nothing catches the beams of the lights but the dashed line in the center of the road.
My little princess is the only person here.
And she...
Is right where I left her, naturally. I double-check her position to make sure she’s not more than she seems, not a double agent with a blade stashed in her dress, not kneeling up behind my seat, ready to drive that blade through my throat. My heart thunders. I want to get her out of this car and begin and I want to keep driving forever. As long as I’m driving, then I haven’t made a final decision.
This is a lie, even inside my own head.
I made the choice when I saw the gorgeous line of her neck, blonde curls spilling into blue light, at that street corner.
Maybe I made the choice before that, but only admitted it to myself then, when she sent up a beacon, calling to me.
I lose several miles to the certainty. No matter how much I try to present it to myself as a thought exercise, as a hypothetical, there are no more hypotheticals here. All the other possibilities for tonight have cut themselves off, falling away like so much dead weight. Only one path forward remains.
One mile to my exit, and a giant green sign looms out of the dark. The white reflective arrow lights up in my high beams and disappears behind us. A blink, and then I’m at the exit, gliding smoothly to the exit ramp and taking the SUV down to a more reasonable speed. A speed that won’t get us noticed by the police. This city crawls with crooked cops, and it would only be a matter of bribing them to continue on with the night, but it’s a hassle I don’t want to deal with.
Not now that I’ve decided.
Not now that we’re almost home.
The entrance to my home is nondescript—a gate set into a brick wall, set back from the road. The gate swings open as I approach and I pull in slowly, slowly, watching it close behind us in the rearview mirror. I watch until I’m sure it’s shut tight. Other people are watching, too—I pay them to be watching. But naturally the final responsibility belongs to me.
Just like my little princess does.
My phone lights up on the center console with a report from my head of security.
All quiet everywhere on the estate.
No new evident threats.
That means, as it always does, that the greatest threat walking these grounds is me.
And tonight, I’ve kidnapped the princess.
3
Desiree
I keep thinking it’s a nightmare.
I know it’s not, I know it’s real, but there’s something about the rock of the SUV on the road that soothes me. Oh, I’m so desperate to close my eyes and sleep away whatever this cruel scenario is, and I almost do. I almost doze off in the back of my kidnapper’s SUV. What a ridiculous thing to have to tell people later. I was kidnapped, but I took a quick catnap on the trip to—
To where?
I snap out of it when the SUV slows, then slows again. There’s no point in counting turns. We’ve already been driving so long, me drifting in and out of a terrified half-sleep, that I have no idea where we are.
Lights shine down through the windows.
Trees—I can see trees, the leaves silhouetted against the April sky. They bloomed early, these trees. Don’t they know we’re not free of the winter yet? We’re almost free, almost, but those new shoots tremble in the breeze the way I’m trembling against the ties that bind me.
We roll to a stop, and damn it—I just can’t. I can’t find it in me to curl up in any kind of defensive position. My limbs feel weighted, heavy, and my ankles still ache from the straps of my shoes.
I wish he’d taken my shoes off.
The trunk pops open and a gust of cold night air wafts over my exposed thighs. A shiver runs down my body, head to toe, and that same dark laugh chases after it. “Cold?”
My teeth chatter against the gag. It wasn’t cold in the back of the SUV. In fact, the temperature was perfect. I didn’t notice because I was too busy napping like a child. But I nod anyway. It can’t hurt, can it? Oh—too late. I’ve let him know that I’m weak.
As if he didn’t know already, when he lifted me off the ground and put me into this SUV.
Big hands lift me again, and there’s nothing intimate about it. He might as well be moving a sack of produce. And damn, damn, I can’t help but curl toward him. I don’t know where we are. It could be an abandoned warehouse, it could be—
A mansion?
A huge, white mansion, slung two stories over the ground. Warm light spills from the front windows while he takes me up the front steps, and the door swings open to admit us as if someone has been waiting.
Someone has been waiting.
A man in a suit gives a low bow, which—what the fuck? A kidnapper has a butler who bows for him?
“Anything for the evening, Mr. Prince?”
“No. That’ll be all.”
The sound of the lock engaging behind us is the most final sound I’ve ever heard.
Game over.
I’m locked in with the man who stole me.
A man who doesn’t seem to care if anyone sees him carrying me up a grand staircase, his feet sure on the carpet. He’s not even breathing hard. I’m nothing to him, nothing—
Or I’m worse than nothing. I’m something. My head spins, panic rising.
“Oh, stop.” Disgust curls the edges of his smooth voice. “Save it. Nothing’s happening to you now. We’re walking upstairs.”
Something already did happen, I want to scream. I got kidnapped. By you. But, infuriatingly, he’s correct. As far as kidnappings go, nothing is happening to me right this moment. I should save my energy if I’m going to survive. That brings on another wave of sick panic. Is he going to kill me? He probably has no choice, when all is said and done. Unless I can seduce him with my feminine wiles. A gurgle of a laugh gets me more of his attention, an arch look. Fuck, he’s handsome. He’s so handsome that it cuts like a knife. Handsome like
a slice to the jugular. All carved angles and masculine planes. He looks like a hero.
He’s not a hero.
He’s the opposite of a hero.
At the top of the stairs he turns left, striding down the hall. A sharp right turn, and then—
Lights.
Coming up slowly, so as not to blind us. A nice touch for an evil man. The lights reveal a sparsely furnished room. A chair. A low bench in front of an unlit fireplace. A sturdy bed, dark wood, four-poster.
Nothing else.
He deposits me unceremoniously onto the bed and leaves me there while he strips off his suit jacket. Such a bright white shirt. So perfect, so flawless. The body underneath makes my breath quicken. I don’t have to see him shirtless to know he’s all muscle, tall and lean and hard, and I will never be able to outrun him. Never.
Another shiver of fear crests at the pit of my belly while he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing honest-to-Christ chiseled forearms. Oh, Jesus. I should be more afraid than this.
He catches me watching and a slow grin slides over his cruelly perfect mouth. “I like the wide-eyed look.” His own eyes narrow. “It suits you, little princess.”
Little princess sends a silvery shot of something else through my veins. I know it’s a taunt, I know it is, but when he says it...
God, it’s so fucked up how my heart pounds and heat curls between my legs. Is it my brain trying to take the edge off my terror? That’s not going to happen. I’m still terrified. But even terrified people can recognize beauty when they see it. That’s what I’ve learned in this moment. What a disgrace. My high school taught me nothing about terror, only anxiety, and nothing about the real monsters that lurk in the night.
Second sleeve in its place, he comes over to the bed and assesses me. His face shows nothing. It’s as if I’m an object for appraisal. Something to be bought and sold. Oh, fuck—am I going to be bought and sold?
No, I think wildly. Maybe. You’re already stolen. Why not sold?
Why not anything?
I flinch when his hands come down, and he laughs again. It’s an addictive sound, that laugh. I wish I could hear it under another circumstance, but there are no other circumstances where I would meet this man. He’s too old for me. Thirty, maybe. Thirty at least. And I don’t go randomly visiting rich men’s mansions. “Stay still,” he warns. “Or suffer the consequences.”
My body obey s him without a second thought. It’s mortifying, how fast I lay against the covers, barely breathing, barely blinking. A light touch on my ankle startles me but I don’t jump. I don’t move.
He told me to stay still.
I’ll stay still.
A nagging pain releases at my ankle. My shoes—he’s taking off my shoes. They fall to the floor with twin thuds, and then the tie around my ankles goes slack. Falls away. He rubs at my ankles and cups a palm over the ball of my foot, working movement back into them. It’s surprisingly caring, if a kidnapper can have feelings, but I try to blink that thought away. He doesn’t really care. He’s just—
I don’t know what he’s doing.
“Let’s see if the little princess can stand.”
He jerks me upright and puts me on my feet at the foot of the bed, and I do, I stand. My knees are weak, my balance off from my wrists being tied behind my back, but I stand nonetheless.
I stand close.
I have no other choice.
I breathe in the leather and mint smell of him, a hint of expensive cologne, and then he threads his fingers in my hair and jerks my head back so I have to look into his eyes. He yanks so hard my eyes sting with tears, but I don’t dare close them, I don’t dare give him the satisfaction. Also, if my eyes are closed, I can’t keep track of him—and I need to. He’s dangerous. A threat. Those dark eyes search my face for something. I don’t know what. After a small eternity he releases my hair and rakes his eyes down over my body.
The dress hides almost nothing.
He slips a finger under one of the straps, studying it as if he’s never seen anything like it before. It would be easier to breathe if I didn’t still have the gag in my mouth but I do, I do, and I have to focus on drawing air in and out.
In and out.
He breaks the strap with a swift pull, the fabric scraping against my skin. Then he repeats the motion on the other side. It’s a costume dress, sturdier than it looks, but it comes apart in his hands, giving up without a fight. It falls to the ground in a blue pool, revealing the stage slip and the thin crinoline that gives this costume its say. He surveys this with a cruel grin, and my heart threatens to run away.
“They strapped you in, didn’t they?”
I can’t answer. Due to the gag.
Mr. Prince—a real prince, it turns out, he really is a prince—destroys the slip and the crinoline, too. My body reacts like he’s destroying my soul. Maybe he is. Every layer exposes more and more skin until I’m shivering at the foot of his bed in nothing but a nude bra and matching panties.
“Ah, look at that,” he says, as if he’s commenting on a passing cloud formation, something utterly boring. “How afraid you are.”
I nod without thinking. I am afraid. I’m so afraid. I’m almost naked, and he’s so big, so strong.
He brought me here for this.
For this.
“But what would I find,” he comments, “if I took off your panties and spread those pretty thighs?”
I clamp them together. He wouldn’t find anything. He would only find heat. And...and a little wet, but I can’t help it. Who could help it? He’s handsome, and he’s close, I can smell him, he smells so good. He notices my attempt and the answering grin is so mean that it slides between my ribs, a big, cutting edge.
In a blink, the grin is gone, replaced by an expression of such deadly seriousness that the room seems to quiet around us. It’s already silent, but the lack of his grin is like a damper on the world. “Let’s not waste time.” As if I’ve been wasting time. “First things first, little princess. You need to learn an important lesson.” A finger under my jaw forces my face up to his. “Are you listening?”
Another nod. All I have to give.
“You must never, never, walk alone at night. Someone might take advantage.” He frowns al title. “What happens to young women who walk alone at night?”
It’s automatic, the urge to answer him, but all that comes out is a garbled mess.
His grip tightens around my chin, eyes on mine, a dark blaze that could burn me to ashes. “I’ll tell you.” His voice is so even. Whatever he tells me will be the absolute truth. There is no other truth for me. Not as long as I’m here. “They get punished.”
I try to back up, to get away, because even if my mind doesn’t know what this punishment will be, my body doesn’t want it, the fear doesn’t want it. He forces me forward with two fingers around my chin. “Oh, no. You’ll take it like a good girl. That’s rule number one. When you’re in my house, you will behave.”
Or else what? What would be worse than this?
“I see.” He lets go of my face, and then his hands drop. I follow them, rasping through the gag, trying my best to stay upright. They stop at his belt. He undoes the buckle and whips it out of his belt loop. This is a man who knows his way around a belt and it’s in his hands in an instant, snapping it in front of my face. I flinch back and this time, he allows it.
“Rule number two,” he says. “It can always get worse.”
4
Desiree
He turns away from me and it’s all I can do to stay standing. I want to sag to the floor and cry, but that would be a waste of energy and breath and frankly I can’t spare either. It’s past midnight, my eyes bleary and aching, and for the love of god, if something is going to happen then let it.
Let it.
Something does happen.
He sits down in the chair, which I’m only now realizing has no arms, and widens his stance. He looks like he could sit there forever. F
orever and ever, never getting tired, never standing up, as solid as a rock. He levels a glare at me across the room and not for the first time I feel my near-nakedness, a flush of shame hotter than any fire.
No.
No.
I can’t do what he’s suggesting, just by sitting there. I can’t do it.
He pats his knee, belt in the other hand, and keeps watching. “Be a good girl,” he says.
Oh, god, it’s awful, it’s the worst thing, how it makes a place low in my belly clench and heat and ache for him. The rest of me is a block of ice, frozen in place, but between my legs I’m an inferno. It’s as uncomfortable as having my arms tied behind my back.
“Put yourself over my lap, or I’ll do it for you.” His hand tightens around the belt. Mr. Prince—not a prince—has made clear without describing it what will happen if I don’t go over there and bend over his lap.
I can’t.
I just—I can’t. Imagining it makes my face heat and my knees wobble. If I’m pressed over his lap, he’ll be able to feel everything. He’ll be able to see everything. I’ll be exposed to him.
That’s what he wants.
“Little princess,” he warns, and I tip my head back to get a view of the ceiling. I’m a puppet with the strings cut, praying for anyone, anything, to come and save me.
There’s no hero tonight.
Not even me.
“I’m not usually so generous.” He’s watching me. He won’t stop looking, and his gaze burns trails of fire down my naked belly. If I go over there, he’s going to take my bra off. Or he’ll take my panties down. Or both. He’ll punish me like the naughty, stupid thing I was for walking alone at night.
My humiliation does a valiant battle with my fear of the belt.
The belt wins.
I’ve never been belted before. Or spanked. Nothing like this has ever happened, not in all my life. Trying to imagine the pain and the fear is too much, far too much when I can’t take a deep breath.
