by Vivien Vale
Instead, she gets an empty house and a cold note.
Did she sit and wait for me to get back, or did she wake up happy I wasn’t there? Empty houses are all the easier to leave, after all. Maybe she just left and never even waited around for me at all.
Maybe it’s better that way. I’m the doctor, after all. Minimizing pain is my specialty.
I finally pull out of the traffic and get on to the main road. I’m certain I’m never going to see her again.
Whether she’s there or not when I get back…something’s fucking wrong. I can feel it in my chest.
Remembering how good it is to drive my own car, I slam my foot down and take out my frustration on the car as I handle the speed and the turns.
And in the back of my mind, I fucking pray. I pray that I’ll drive fast enough, and I pray that I’m not too late.
Chapter 16
Stella
This is seriously bullshit.
It’s full on night time, and I’ve still had no word at all from Michael.
He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…
Something like that.
I groan and settle further back into the cushy seat of his home theater. On the screen in front of me, a grinning blonde turns to find that the love of her life has followed her to the airport, desperate to make her stay.
“BOO!” I yell, half-tempted to throw something.
Apparently, it’s true what they say: real life isn’t like the movies.
In real life, you can be kidnapped, mailed to a doctor with the world’s biggest dick, and still end up sitting alone watching chick flicks.
What’s even the point of being here if I’m alone?
I know that I don’t know a whole lot about this mail-order bride thing, but I really thought it’d be more fun than this.
If the man who bought you can’t even be bothered to show up, what’s it all for?
After the past few days, I definitely had a different evening planned. For example, I planned on having Michael’s cock in my mouth right about now.
Instead, I’m watching two crappy actors make out.
It’s not even sexy.
Speaking of things that aren’t sexy, I’m also really over this whole creepy vibe. I really tried to talk some sense into myself, to get the hell over it, but I’m still feeling unsettled.
No, the door hasn’t magically opened again or anything like that. I just have this feeling. It’s like, every few minutes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Maybe it’s my body overreacting to nightmares and loneliness…or maybe my body knows something that I don’t.
I feel watched.
Hunted.
No matter how many times I tell myself I’m just being crazy, it won’t go away.
In fact, it’s getting worse.
I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-convinced I’ll find a monster there. Some big hungry beastie waiting to gobble me up—and not in a good way.
When I look, though, it’s just more nothing.
I’m definitely alone. All alone.
Which brings me back to the actual problem.
Where the hell is he?
In my head, I alternate between worry and anger.
One second, I’m picturing him dead in a ditch, and the next I’m trying to decide what bitchy thing I’ll say to him when he finally shows up.
Things like, “Where the hell have you been?”
Or, a classic like, “Do you know what time it is, Mister?”
Maybe I’ll skip anger and go straight to, “Take your fucking pants off!”
So many choices…
I’m still wading through these thoughts when I feel eyes on me again. The chill that follows is even worse than before. A sensation like someone rubbing ice up the length of my spine.
I risk another glance over my shoulder…still nothing.
I think I might actually be losing it.
On the TV, the credits are rolling, some upbeat song blasting through the speakers. I certainly don’t feel upbeat. In fact, the music only makes me feel more on edge.
It’s like in scary movies when they play children’s songs or old-timey hits. The kind of music that makes you picture some nasty murder montage.
I change the channel.
My stomach is growling.
It occurs to me that I haven’t eaten much today. Likely because I was expecting Michael to show up at some point and make us dinner.
I mean really, what’s the point of being ordered by a sexy billionaire if he doesn’t even cook for you?
At this point, I’d even eat the vegetables.
I sit for a minute longer, stuck between my hunger and stubbornness.
After the day I’ve had, he should have to cook.
“GRRR!” goes my stomach, trying to sway me to its side.
I’ll admit, it’s a pretty convincing argument.
I cave.
With a final huff of irritation, I pick up the remote, hitting the power button and returning the screen to darkness.
It’s right about then that I become convinced I’ve lost my mind.
In the reflection on the TV, it almost looks like someone is standing behind me. Which is obviously insane, because I’m alone here. Totally completely alone.
My heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo though, as it rockets away inside my chest.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
My heart’s beating so hard, I’m sure that if I look down, I’ll see that’s it’s popped right out of my body, shirt stretched to accommodate it, like in Loony Tunes.
Speaking of Loony Tunes, that reminds me. I’m nuts.
I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, eyes locked on the TV.
I’m certain I must be hallucinating. That there’s no one behind me and that he’s certainly not holding something that looks like a knife.
I’ve gotten myself half-convinced when he moves.
A scream tears its way out of me, shrill and fearful.
The remote falls from my hand to clatter loudly against the wooden floors as I stand, spinning wildly around.
“Hello, baby,” he says with a thick Russian accent, shark-like grin splitting his face. “Miss me?”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
Standing in front of me is someone I was sure I’d never see again.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” he says, his accent even thicker than I remembered. “And here I thought you’d be so glad.”
“Wha—what are you doing here?” I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
“Why, I’ve come to rescue you!” he says, his eyes shining maliciously as he says it.
I don’t spend long looking at his eyes, though. My gaze is almost immediately drawn to his right hand. Or, more specifically, the butcher knife that it’s wielding.
He seems to notice.
“Oh, this? This is just in case of problems...” He tilts his head, grinning even more broadly. “But we aren’t going to have problems, are we?”
I can only manage to shake my head no.
I liked him better when he was pretending to be a sexy doctor.
Sexy doctors are my type, haven’t you heard?
Russians with knives…not my kink.
Not that it matters.
“Good,” he growls, “now come here.”
Chapter 17
Michael
“Stella!” I call, rushing inside. “Stella?”
I’m hoping. God, I can’t help myself.
I’m hoping that she’ll just raise that gorgeous face up from the back of the couch and say, Hey, sweetie. What took you so long?
But the apartment is silent and cold.
She’s gone.
I grip the kitchen counter for a second, feeling the pain in my knuckles. I’ve never felt like this before. I used to laugh at men in power who got emotional under pressure. Now here I am—an absolute fucking wreck.
I knew someth
ing was wrong the moment I got out of surgery.
And now here it is. Black fucking cloud hanging over my entire fucking house.
In a blind rage, I clench my fists and lash out. Some hand-carved wooden fertility statues from Africa go flying as my fist connects with the wall.
Scratch that.
It goes through the wall.
My knuckles are bleeding. My swing grazed the bookshelf, and now I’ve got shards of wood in my hand.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing this won’t make surgery fun tomorrow. What a goddamn stupid thing to do! I’ve never lost it like this before…but Stella.
Stella’s the kind of woman worth losing it over.
And now I’ve lost her.
I move over to the sink, gritting my teeth as I pick the splinters out of my knuckles.
Perfect control. Cold as ice fucking doctor. Wincing at the sink with a wrecked hand and an empty bed.
I have to admit it to myself: I’ve never loved anyone before. Not like this. Not ever.
Not like she’s the air I breathe and the only comfort I know in this world.
I shake off the sentimental shit and run my knuckles beneath cold water from the tap.
That’s the great thing about training—it kicks in when you can’t think for yourself. Some of these splinters are pretty big. Might need stitches.
I know how to stitch myself up, at least.
As my hand is soaking, I carefully pull out the splinters. They’re thick, and some over an inch long—I really pulverized that fucking shelf.
Still, even though these wounds aren’t serious, I may have a few micro-fractures. Even if it is just superficial damage, if any of this gets infected, I’ll be out of surgery for a while.
I’d have plenty of time for Stella then.
If she was still fucking here, anyway.
I look up to the ceiling and feel that horrid bunch in my stomach again. Just one more reason why I’m not good enough for her: no self-control. Can’t keep my dick in my pants, can’t keep control of my goddamn fists.
Should have married her first. Bought her as a bride—should have made her one, too.
I dry my hand off with paper towels, looking for a bandage. My mind keeps working methodically and carefully as it always does, solving the problem.
But underneath, I’m seething with self-loathing. I’m getting angrier and angrier—not at Stella, but at myself.
I should have been there when she woke up this morning. Why did I think the perfect woman, the only one who could meet my standards, should sit around like a pretty doll on a shelf?
I should have woken her, taken her with me. I could set her up in a nice café or something to wait for me, sent her to an art museum or given her my black card. Anything instead of just ditching her like a one-night stand.
I’m steadily applying bandages. It hurts, I guess, but at least the entire hand isn’t fucked.
But what does it matter? I’m fucked, my heart is fucked, everything is fucked.
My hand feels kind of irrelevant by comparison.
I have a nip of scotch and take it over to the couch where I collapse for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
I want to go after her. I want to get her back. I want to track her down, wherever she’s gone.
I want to spend every last moment hunting for her just to see her one last time.
But for the first time in my life I am self-aware. I know doing that would be for me, not for her benefit.
This is the moment I decide I’m a changed man.
I’m not going to chase down this gorgeous angel and tear her life apart, trying to make her love me. I shouldn’t have bought her in the first place. I shouldn’t have expected her to stay.
No. She deserves to be free, to be spoiled every second of her life. She deserves someone who will be there and who will cherish her the way she deserves.
She did the right thing. She left. Now I have to do the right thing and let her go.
I bow my head, and I finish my drink.
But then, as I stand up I catch a scent. Iron. Tangy. Like the ER on a bad night.
Blood.
Not mine. I’m all cleaned up, the rags all thrown away. Force of habit. So where can it be coming from?
Feeling a hard anger starting to build inside me, I head down the hall.
Fuck. There!
A dark smear. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s there: a dark smear across the wall and floor.
Someone got hurt here.
My Stella got hurt here.
I inhale again.
No. On second thought…doesn’t smell like her.
I don’t know who else was here in my house…but that’s not Stella’s blood.
My mind’s racing to try and piece it all together, but if there’s one conclusion I’m comfortable to come to…
It’s the one that will give me a little hope.
She didn’t go. She didn’t leave me.
She was taken.
Kidnapped. Fucking kidnapped again.
Stella does seem to have a penchant for that. But this time…I look at the dark stain again. This time, she made the fucker bleed for his efforts.
The rage within me is like an animal. My mind isn’t clouded. I’m totally clear.
I snap out my phone as I bolt for the door. It’s time to call in every favor I have coming to me. Once I do, I’m going to find this motherfucker, and I’m going to destroy him.
Then, I’m going to get my girl back.
Chapter 18
Stella
I sit in the front seat, curled up as far away from this fucking psycho as I can get. He’s tied my hands with some nasty nylon cord, and the duct tape across the face really hurts.
You wouldn’t think it would hurt, would you? Everyone on TV does the duct tape thing so regularly. I never imagined it was so fucking painful…but it totally is.
Russian psycho looks over at me constantly. When he slows down for an intersection or something he leers over at me, grazing his eyes across my body.
I’m really fucking scared now, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to take the cunt apart. I made him bleed once, I can do it again.
I wonder if I can get my legs up and kick at him.
The car is small, hot, and fast. If I wasn’t bound and gagged, I’d probably be impressed. He handles it well too, speeding through the streets.
“Well then, krasivoya,” he whispers, “I have feasted upon you with my eyes. Now, I want to hear the pretty bird speak.”
He leans over and tugs the duct tape off my mouth.
Fuck me, that hurts! My eyes tear up as he leans back and gives me an expectant look. I’m so stunned by his idiocy, I can only stare back for all of two seconds before I verbally blast the motherfucker.
“You vodka-chugging fuck! Let me go, you fucking dick. Do you know how much shit you are going to get for this? Do you?”
I know it’s not worth screaming. The car is like a quiet bubble. It blocks out the street sounds.
I’ve ridden in cars like this all my life, and I know they’re designed to keep the occupants separate from the masses of humanity outside. I also know those brain-dead masses won’t give a fuck if I start to scream.
Even if I show my bound hands, they will likely think we’re on our wedding night and just read 50 Shades or something. The shit people get up to these days.
Russian psycho is looking at me with a slightly down-trodden look, like a kicked puppy. I can’t help it, I start giggling. Did he really think I was going to sweetly thank him?
“My sweet one, I want to do you no harm, but you must learn your place. The boys and I thought you were just a nice handy ticket. We needed a girl to send over and there you were. Like an angel sent from heaven. But once I let you go, I could not forget you.”
Psycho Russian is handling the wheel, keeping one eye on me and one eye on the road. He keeps looking over, trying to stare deeply into my eyes, and I just give him a glare. My whole
body is rigid, and I’m still wondering if I can get my legs up.
Maybe I could open the door even with bound hands?
“I searched for you krasivoya, I search the web for you. I find you, not just a model, but a princess—daughter of a billionaire! My love for you only grows from there. I try to forget. I take the drugs. I drink vodka. I quench myself in every Russian whore I can find, but you torture my dreams, krasivoya. All I see behind my eyes is you, dancing through my dreams.”
“Listen, cunt, this all entertaining, and all that shit, but for a seduction, it fucking sucks! What the fuck is going on with you? Are you seriously deranged?”
It’s not fear. Well, not all of it. I’ve never been angry in this way before.
Okay, maybe once or twice but now I see the difference between a real problem and the latest shoes not being in the right color to match my dress.
“Shut up!” he snaps. “You must learn your place! You are not some casual fuck, no. I don’t do this if I want to ravish you. If all I want is your cunt, then I can take that back at fancy apartment! I could fuck you right now if I wanted to.”
We roll slowly to a stop at a light. When he leans over, I can smell the vodka on his breath and his warm, damp hand gripping my knee.
He’s taking slow, even breaths and seems utterly calm. I have to say that wigs me out a bit, and the hand on my knee gives me a sick feeling in my guts.
“I don’t want fucking, lovely one…Well, I do, but that comes after.”
He moves back as the lights change. Fuck, I just missed a great chance to headbutt him or something.
Actually, that’s a fucking laugh. Who the fuck do I think I am? Headbutting. For fuck’s sake.
My face is my money-maker. I need to stop being ridiculous.
“Okay, I’ll bite. After what?”
“After wedding, my darling! You will be my lovely bride!”
I can’t understand the words for a second. He’s grinning and looking between the road and me.
Honestly, I think he’s actually waiting for my overjoyed reaction.
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.
The insulted look on his face! Oh, just like that idiot Paul Tucker at senior prom. May I have a kiss from the prom queen? Fuck no, you little perv!
And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. His expression just makes me laugh harder.
