by Layla Frost
My dick protested that I caught myself. It liked the idea of her under me again like in the field—but with her screaming in a much different way.
“That’s my bag.” She whipped around, pointing behind her at the duffel on the bed. “Why do you have my bag?”
“Grabbed some shit from your place. You got a cat?” I asked, worried I’d have to tell her she didn’t anymore.
“No, there’re strays I feed near work.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
Her head tilted. “You really went to my apartment?”
“Told you, I don’t lie.”
“No, but you do kidnap and break into other people’s apartments, so excuse me if I’m hesitant to believe you.” Taking a few steps, Ophelia looked at the bags from the lingerie store on the floor. “Okay, I’m just gonna assume those are presents for your wife and/or girlfriend because otherwise I’m gonna risk it in the van for the night.”
“Van’s gone.”
“The woods then.”
“They’re for you. I’ll explain later, but, trust me, you’ll want this shit.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and that one moment was enough to gut me. Because either she was a damn good actress, or she was innocently caught in the bullshit swirling around.
I opened my mouth, willing to tell her anything. Every damn thing. Whatever it took to get rid of the fear swimming in her big grey eyes.
Before I could, my cell chimed.
“I’m not wearing any of this,” she said as I pulled out my phone.
“Fine by me if you wanna walk around wearing nothin’ under your clothes—or without your clothes.” I paused and added, “But only when it’s just you and me.”
My focus on unlocking my phone, I almost missed her hauling back and kicking one of the bags.
But I saw and was able to step aside to dodge it without looking up.
“You got me my clothes, you can go back and get me my own damn underwear! This whole thing is so fucked, but this brings it into creepy-as-hell territory.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause,” I muttered distractedly as I read the text.
“That’s not an answer.”
I held up a finger.
And she told me where I could stick it.
Dair: Aye, you weren’t fookin’ kidding about her place.
Dair: Also, the lotto tickets in her car only won a buck. I’m keeping it.
Me: You still at her apartment?
Dair: Aye, why?
Me: I’m gonna video call you. Watch what you say ‘cause she’s with me.
Dair: The Gus-Protocol. Got it.
Gus-Protocol was Nox’s rule that, no matter how urgent shit was, nothing was to be said until they were away from his wife.
I wonder if there will be an Ophelia-Clause in Mayhem.
I hit the button to start the video call.
“That’s not an answer,” she hissed. That time, I didn’t notice her kick the bag. Not until it hit my head—just as the call connected.
“Ya under knicker-torpedo attack there?” Dair asked, chuckling. His laughter increased, and he touched his shoulder. “Got a little something.”
I reached up and grabbed a pair of lace panties, dropping them to where the others had spilled into a heap.
“Who is that?” Ophelia rushed over before stopping short. “Probably pointless to shout for help if you called him with me right here, huh?”
“Sorry, princess.”
“No, you’re not. That was a lie.”
“White lie.”
She huffed. “Maybe to you.”
Holding my cell out, I shifted so she was next to me and could see the screen. “Dair, this is Ophelia. O, this is Dair.”
“Don’t call me O.” In the small square that showed us, I could see her start to smile before catching herself and dramatically frowning.
Work the sympathy. Smart.
Maybe she’s more of an actress than I thought.
Adding a few sniffles, she told Dair, “He kidnapped me.”
Dair smiled and shrugged. “Sorry about that, lass. All’s fair in love and war, aye?” His eyes went to me. “I need to follow ya and Nox around, ya lucky bastards. The talent in the States…” He gave a low whistle. “Thinkin’ I might need to move.”
Instinctively, my arm went around Ophelia, and I gripped her hip, curling her body closer to mine. “Dair,” I bit out a warning.
“Slap a fookin’ beard on ya, shove a cigar in yer mouth, and yer fookin’ Nox: US edition.”
I was waiting for her to claw my arm or threaten my balls, but she didn’t fight the hold. Her lack of reaction made sense since her attention wasn’t on me.
It was on the background of the screen.
Her voice was shocked when she breathed, “You’re in my apartment.”
“Lovely place ya had,” Dair said.
“Had?”
He looked to me for the go-ahead.
I gave it, saying, “Show her.”
The view shook and whirled until we were looking at her destroyed living room.
It must’ve taken a moment for it to sink in, but after Ophelia’s delayed gasp, she launched into a breathless rush of questions and accusations. “What happened? You did this. Why? I’m already here. You could’ve just lied and said it was destroyed. I can’t… some of that stuff is irreplaceable. I can never get it back. Why would you do this?”
“He didn’t, lass,” Dair tried, turning the camera back to him, but she wasn’t listening.
“I don’t understand why you’d do this. My home. What did I ever do to you?”
I gave her hip a squeeze so she’d look up at me. “Jury and I got there after it’d been hit.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t have anything worth stealing.”
Getting back to why I called, I told Dair, “Show ‘er the bag on the bed.”
He hesitated.
“She’s over here tryin’ to kick my ass with the shit I bought her ‘cause she thinks I’m a pervert. She’s gonna find out about her old stuff, I’d rather it be before she takes my eye out with lace or strangles me with a thong.”
“Only ya’d complain about a lass throwing her underthings at ya.” The camera shook as he walked down the hall. He didn’t speak as he turned its focus to the bag on her bed.
“I’m confused,” Ophelia whispered, tilting her head to look at me. “If you packed my underwear, why didn’t you just bring it instead of whatever all this is?”
Wanting to give her my undivided attention when I answered, I ignored her for a moment to ask him, “Any word from Nox?”
“Not yet. Figure he had his hands full with the visit, then his hands full a different way.”
It was a good guess.
“Call me as soon as you learn anything.”
He started to turn the phone around but ended up dropping it to the bed. When he picked it up, the damn camera was aimed at the piss-poor plastic substitution they’d left on her bed.
Ophelia leaned closer. “Is that my…” Her words trailed off and she looked at me, her gray eyes filled with fury and devastation.
Daggers and vulnerability.
If this is an act…
I might not fuckin’ care.
Ending the call, I told her, “Your underwear was on the bed when we got there, spelling out Boo—with a plastic exclamation point.”
Ophelia put a shaking hand on my abs and whispered, “It wasn’t you?”
Holding her tighter as she trembled, I shook my head and whispered back, “Never lie to you.”
“So you’re saying someone else tore through my apartment and riffled through my underwear and… other things on the same day you grabbed me from a grocery store parking lot?”
I nodded.
She dropped her eyes and stared at the bed for long, silent moments.
“Well,” she finally said, her voice cracking, “this is not my da
y.”
And then she burst into tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
___________________________
BEAUTY GURU AND THE PSYCHO
OPHELIA
IT’D BEEN A DAY. Actually, it’d been six years shoved into one day.
Actually actually, it’d been lifetimes shoved into years that were squished into one single day. Because being kidnapped wasn’t something that happened to everyone. And having their home destroyed wasn’t, either.
That meant, on the bad-luck scale, I was going for some kind of record. Two rare, improbable occurrences on the same damn day.
Shit.
I hated crying.
I mean, I was sure no one liked crying, but I hated it extra.
It didn’t happen often.
No matter how beautiful the love story.
How tragic the death.
How touching the lyrics that were woven together with music that swelled and slowed—each chord orchestrated to pluck at the strings of my heart.
Even the biggie, the sad and inevitable death of a movie’s loyal pet, might make me choke up, but few tears were shed.
The one exception was, of course, the beginning of UP. Oh, and the furnace scene in Toy Story 3.
Someone would have to have ice water in their veins to walk away from those unaffected.
Since I wasn’t in the habit of watching either movie, my tears tended to stockpile. And once the dam broke, it was ugly.
Ug-ly.
My tears weren’t because I was scared—though I was…
Kinda.
I’d have to be stupid to not be apprehensive of Psycho, but I didn’t feel fear down to my bones. In fact, it was the opposite. I almost felt safe with him. But I was willing to bet Ted Bundy’s victims felt the same way up until the whole murder thing, so even if my gut and intuition weren’t on red alert, a lifetime of movies and serial killer specials kept me smart.
My tears were for my apartment. For everything lost. For the beauty that used to be my home. For the sentimental things that could never be replaced.
That was what broke my heart and the dam of emotions.
Psycho’s voice was sympathetic as he whispered, “O?”
He’s lucky I don’t blow my nose in his shirt for putting me through hell.
Deep breathing, I tried to slow the onslaught of tears because I didn’t want the massive headache that followed pent-up crying jags.
I’m tough, I’ll get through this. I need to calm down.
Focus on the now. The rest is just stuff.
That was enough to do the trick. Quick as they started, my tears slowed before stopping.
I’d get away.
I’d clean my apartment, replacing what I could and mourning what was lost.
And I’d move on.
Wiping my face, I had a lot of fight in me but my body was exhausted. However many lifetimes I’d lived in that day caught up to me at once, and I needed to rest. I’d be no good if an escape opportunity presented itself and I was too tired to move.
“I’d like to go to bed,” I said.
Psycho’s hand at my hip tightened, making me realize he had an arm wrapped low around my waist. It also made me realize that my own hand was gripping his tee at his abs.
“You okay?” He shook his head. “That’s a fuckin’ stupid question, I know, but you were crying then you hit the off switch.”
“You… you know what you did. And my gorgeous apartment that I had set up perfectly is destroyed. Even if I could fix it exactly how it was, which I can’t, I’ll still have to move. You got in. Whoever else got in. I’ll never feel safe, and it’ll never feel like my home again. My privacy and security were both destroyed. No, they were taken out, beaten, dismembered, torched, then the ashes gathered to be torched again before being spread to the far corners of the earth.”
“Damn, princess, remind me to come to you when I need torture ideas.”
Pushing the fact he’d said when and not if to the back of my mind, I tilted my head to answer his question. “So, no, I’m not okay. But it’s just stuff, and I’ll figure it out. Crying will only give me a headache, and I’m too tired to deal with that. So, like I said, I want to go to bed.”
He held my eyes before giving me a slow nod and releasing his hold on me. I did the same with my death grip on his shirt and stepped away.
“The lock is deactivated. Remember where the bathroom is?”
I nodded and headed for the doorway.
“O.”
I glared at him over my shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”
“I didn’t grab any of your soap or shit ‘cause most of it was dumped. And what wasn’t,” he glowered, “don’t think you’ll wanna keep.” He picked up a massive bag and thrust it at me. “Dunno if any of this shit is what you use, but the chick in the store had a fuckin’ field day draggin’ me around.”
Turning around fully, I didn’t grab the fancy-schmancy paper bag with its intricately embossed logo, satiny black ribbons, and glittery pink tissue paper—like the dream present of any beauty guru.
He shook it, and my gaze went from the bag to him.
I was a woman who liked beauty products. I didn’t shop high-end exclusively and usually scoured Instagram stories and YouTube for dupes of all my favorite pricey items. But every once in a while, after a long week or one loaded with overtime, I treated myself.
Face masks.
Hair masks.
Serums.
Cleansers.
Bath bombs, bubbles, oils.
The newest palettes, primers, mascaras, or whatever else was hot and fun and in demand.
But even as a woman who liked all things self-care, I’d never ventured into the store that had the fancy-schmancy bags with its intricately embossed logo, satiny black ribbons, and glittery pink tissue paper.
Because one look at their website had confirmed that it’d take a whole lot of overtime to shop there—and even then, I’d likely only be able to afford one thing at a time. With my luck, it’d be the best thing I’d ever tried, and there was nothing worse than finding a product I loved and knowing I couldn’t afford it on the regular.
So I really wanted that bag. I wanted to dive into it like a kid at Christmas, uncovering treasure after exquisite treasure.
But I didn’t. Couldn’t.
Accepting anything from Psycho was insane. He was a stranger. My captor.
He was danger wrapped in a sexy and charming package.
And that was the worst kind there was. It was why high school girls who didn’t know better fell for the bad boy.
And why women who did know better fell anyway.
My life wasn’t Beauty and the Beast. I wasn’t going to be Stockholm Syndromed into thinking he was a good man because of a few thoughtful actions during my captivity.
“I’m good,” I forced out before speed walking to the bathroom to clean up as best as I could with hand soap.
At least it’s the foaming pump kind. Everyone knows that’s the best and it’s fairly mild.
My mind was already slowing from exhaustion as I returned to the room. When I reached the doorway, however, it kickstarted and launched into overdrive as I watched a pair of skin-tight boxers sliding up over a rounded ass.
“Shit. Sorry.” I turned fast, letting out a suppressed yelp as I nearly smacked into the doorframe.
“We’re good,” he said, amusement filling his tone.
Despite his reassurances, I covered my eyes before turning back. “Why are you in your underwear?”
“Usually sleep naked. Didn’t think you’d be cool with that.” He took a quick pause before adding a teasing, “Yet.”
“What was wrong with the ones you were wearing?”
“Don’t wear any.”
My brain fritzed out until his previous answer sank in, and even though I already knew what he was going to say, I uncovered my eyes and asked, “Why would I care how you sleep?”
“Not leaving you alone.”
“Well, I hope you’re comfortable sleeping in the hall outside of the locked door because you’re not sleeping with me.”
His lips curled up on one side in a wicked, cocky smirk. “Glad you’re already thinking about me in bed with you, but I figured I’d take the floor.”
I opened my mouth to object, but hesitated. Considering I didn’t know how to activate the lock and he had the passcode, he could just let himself in while I slept.
More importantly, though, I didn’t want to be alone. Every strange creak and shadow were likely to send me into a coronary wondering if whoever had trashed my apartment had found me.
At least with Psycho there, there was a chance he’d protect me.
Or they’d go after him first, giving me time to run.
Either way.
Closing my mouth, I reluctantly nodded. “Fine. But if you so much as touch the bed, I’ll beat you with one of the bags.”
“Already picked up on your violent streak, so you’ve got my word.”
I rolled my eyes, but did it feeling a little like a badass.
Psycho took a pillow and blanket from the closet. I wasn’t sure why, but it surprised me it held extra bedding and not the skulls of his enemies or empty booze bottles.
My expression must’ve shown it because he arched a brow and asked, “Did ya think I slept on dirty, crusty sheets and used cinder blocks as pillows?”
“No,” I tried, but…
Yeah. Kinda.
“I’m a man, so none of my shit matches, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have backups. Swedes’ old lady runs an expensive and upscale housekeeping company. She and some bunnies who work for her come through once a week. Plus, I’m capable of doing laundry in a pinch. Can’t iron for shit, but not really needed.”
For someone who wouldn’t even tell me what I was suspected of, he was surprisingly forthcoming with other details.
Including ones that made my stomach tighten no matter how ridiculous it was. “Bunnies? Shouldn’t you call them gavels?”
“Gavels?”
No matter how hard I worked to keep my tone neutral, I could hear the unmistakable sharpness. “Because you use them to bang?”
Psycho’s eyes narrowed, and like earlier in the parking lot, his smile twisted into something sinister. “You’re fuckin’ lucky your jealousy makes me hard, princess. Not many people get away with insulting me, and that seems to be all you do.”
