Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(58)

Long and rock hard, his erection digs into my bottom.

I lie there wide-eyed and shaking, aroused and breathless, expecting at any moment to feel his teeth sink into my neck and his hands rip off my clothing.

What happens instead is that he grips my jaw in his hand, turns my head, and kisses me.

It’s deep and searching. Raw and ravenous. Passionate and scorching hot. Everything he wants from me is in it, as if he’s allowing himself this one moment of release to show me the depths of his desire.

The moment is over as quickly as it came.

He releases me, springs from the bed, and strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

A few seconds later, another door slams, and he’s gone.





I spend the day in a daze, shuffling from room to room like a zombie. I can’t concentrate. Without a television or computer, I feel like time is standing still. I’m confused, restless, and emotional, unsure what I’m supposed to do about what happened, nervous about what will happen when he comes back.

By the time Mal comes home late that night, I’m a mess.

I needn’t have worried, though, because he’s returned to pensive caretaker mode.

The animal is back in its cage.

“You’re still awake,” he says, standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

I’m sitting in the big leather chair, thumbing through a book I can’t read because it’s in Russian. I set it aside and look at him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He’s holding several large white paper bags with handles, like the ones from a department store. He sets them on the floor and removes his coat, throwing it onto the desk chair.

“I brought you some clothes. Shoes. Other things, too.”

He gestures to the bags. Hopefully my sanity is in there somewhere.

“Thank you.”

I’m stiff and uncomfortable, unsure what to say.

He stands still for a moment, watching me, then unexpectedly kneels in front of my chair. Grasping my wrists in his hands, he pulls me toward him.

When my face is inches from his, he searches my eyes. Then he murmurs, “Now you’re afraid of me. Good.”

“Why do you want me to be afraid of you?”

His answer is gentle. “Because you should be. Because it will keep you alive.”

“These whiplash mood changes of yours are all very exhausting. By the way, I’ve been thinking.”

“Now I should be afraid.”

“That’s not funny. I asked you how long you were going to keep me here. Your answer was ‘As long as it takes.’ As long as what takes?”

A small shake of his head is my only answer. His refusal makes me angry.

“I deserve an explanation.”

A muscle in his jaw slides. His green eyes flash. “I’ll decide what you deserve. And when you get it.”

Oh, the innuendo there is hair-raising. I don’t let it distract me. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you save me? Why have you bothered doing anything you’ve done since we met? What’s the plan, Mal?”

“The plan is none of your business.”

“This is my life we’re talking about!”

In his wolfish growl, he says, “Your life was forfeited when Declan killed my brother. Your life belongs to me now.”

Our gazes are locked, unblinking, and furious. Electricity crackles through the air.

Refusing to be intimidated by him, I keep my voice cool and even. “So I’m your slave. You own me. Is that what you’re telling me?”

His eyes grow hot. He licks his lips.

He likes the idea.

“I’m not telling you anything one way or another except this: you’ll stay here with me as long as I want you to.”

He stands abruptly, looking down at me with hot, half-lidded eyes. “As for the question of ownership, you might want to ask yourself why you still haven’t begged me to take you home.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the room.

I shout after him, “I’ve been kidnapped! It’s implied that I want to go home!”

That low, satisfied chuckle I hear from the other room tells me he doesn’t believe me, either.





I don’t speak to him for two days. I can’t. I’m too angry.

I’m not sure which one of us I’m more angry with, however, him or me.

He’s right: I should have begged him to take me home by now. I should’ve done it the first time I opened my eyes. But I haven’t, and that means something.

Something disturbing I haven’t quite figured out.

Or maybe I don’t want to figure it out. The implications aren’t good.

Or maybe I don’t want to know what he’d do if I asked him to take me home.

Maybe he would, and I don’t want him to.

And maybe my brain just needs a vacation from all the maybes, because not a single thing makes sense anymore. I hardly know which way is up.

On the third day, he takes me outside for the first time.

Bundled in a heavy wool blanket and a sweater and sweatpants he brought me, my feet snug in a pair of nubby cotton socks, I stand blinking on the porch in the bright light, leaning a hip against the wood railing and holding a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun. My breath steams out in front of my face in billowing white clouds.