Chapter 7: Carnal Urges: Chapter 7

When I wake, it takes a moment to orient myself to the strange room.

Everything is done in shades of gray and black. The furnishings are contemporary and masculine. An unlit fireplace dominates one side of the room. A sofa and chairs are clustered into a sitting area nearby. Heavy black drapes are drawn across the windows so the room is dark, but a pale glow from an open door across from me provides enough light to see my surroundings.

I sit up, shivering. I have no idea what time it is or how much time has passed, but I’m starving, and I have to pee.

The glass of water on the nightstand sits there like a dare.

Ignoring it because it’s probably drugged, I swing my legs over the side of the king-size bed and pad across plush carpeting toward the open door. Inside it, I find a massive master bathroom. Automatic lights come on when I enter, illuminating acres of white marble and glass.

I use the toilet, then rummage around in the drawers under the sinks until I find a tube of toothpaste. I do the best I can to brush my teeth with my finger, then wash my face and attempt to tame my snarled hair with my hands.

It doesn’t work. I look exactly like what I am: a kidnapping victim.

Except I hate that word. I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid having it pinned on me. Once you accept the victim label, it sticks.

Get it together, Sloane. Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.

I close my eyes, center myself, and clear my mind.

I have no clean underwear.

I don’t know why that’s the first thought that floats into my consciousness, but it is. I breathe through a moment of pure anger at Declan. No clothes, no cell phone, no toiletries, no birth control pills—

Oh, shit. Without my pills, I’ll start my period any minute. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin this skirt by getting blood all over it. It’s rumpled and wrinkled, but nothing that can’t be fixed.

I need a change of clothes.

Heading out of the bathroom, I find another door that leads to a walk-in closet. Lights blink on in here, too. The closet is filled with identical black suits hanging in a row, along with a row of identical white dress shirts. A few pairs of black jeans complete his entire wardrobe.

Opening a drawer in the square wood dresser in the middle of the room, I find perfectly folded white undershirts. Another drawer reveals perfectly folded cotton briefs, both black and white. In a third, I find black T-shirts, also folded like they’re on display for sale in a store.

It appears Declan is a bit anal retentive about his clothing.

Which is fantastic considering I’ll soon be bleeding all over it.

I strip out of my skirt, shirt, jacket, and panties, and step into a pair of white briefs. They’re too big and fit like diapers, but who cares. Next I pull one of the white dress shirts off its hanger. It drapes halfway down my thighs when I put it on. I roll up the sleeves and am just pushing the last button through its hole near the hem when a voice speaks from behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I resist the instinct to whirl around in surprise. Instead, I pause for a moment, then look over my shoulder.

Wearing one of his collection of identical black suits, Declan leans against the doorframe. His big arms are folded over his chest. His expression is guarded. His beautiful eyes are endlessly blue.

“I know your memory isn’t so sharp because you’re a senior citizen, so I’ll remind you that I’m not talking to you.”

He holds my gaze just long enough to make my heart skip a beat before he answers. “And I’ll remind you that you’re not in charge here.”

Aren’t I?

He must see the thought pass through my head, because his expression darkens. Unfolding his arms, he steps toward me.

I don’t move as he approaches. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He stops a foot away, so close I can smell him. So close I can see that he hasn’t shaved, and that his eyes are bloodshot, and that he’s exhausted.

In a husky voice, he says, “No, you’re not.”

We stand like that for a moment, just looking at each other, until he grasps my shoulder and turns me to face him. His eyes take a road trip down my figure, lingering on my painted toenails, sweeping up my legs, snagging on the hem of his dress shirt where it meets my bare thighs.

He moistens his lips.

My heart skips another beat. Then another.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so I decide it doesn’t require an answer.

After a crackling pause, he lifts a hand and takes the hem between two fingers. He rubs the material thoughtfully, a muscle sliding in his jaw.

Somebody turned up the temperature again. My hands are sweaty, so are my armpits, and the flush creeping over my cheeks makes them burn.

His voice an octave lower, he says, “What do you have on beneath?”

Breathe. Stay cool. He’s just trying to intimidate you. “Your briefs.”

“You’re wearing my underwear?”

His gaze flashes up to mine. I never knew blue eyes could burn so hotly, but they do.

It’s my turn to moisten my lips. He watches the movement of my tongue with the sharp gaze of a predator.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any other clothes.”

I was going for a tone of cool disinterest, but miss badly. I sound like I just ran a four-minute mile.

Declan’s hand tightens around my shoulder. The pulse in the side of his neck throbs.

Holy shit, it’s sweltering in here. I need to get out of this closet before I erupt into flames.

“I’ll let you go when I’m ready,” he murmurs.

My held breath comes out in a rush. “You don’t get to start reading my mind. That isn’t a thing that’s going to happen, so forget it. Don’t even try.”

“Can’t help it. You’ve got a face like an open book.”

Unnerved by how throaty his voice is, how sweaty I am, and how my traitorous ovaries have decided to stage a coup on my entire nervous system, I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I’m as cool as a cucumber. I’m an ice cube. I’m a cat.”

“A cat?”

“You know. Aloof. Unreadable.”

Maintaining eye contact with me, he slides his hand down my arm until it reaches my wrist. He encircles it with his giant paw, pressing his thumb against my pulse point.

After a moment, he says softly, “For such an aloof little cat, you’ve got quite the frantic heartbeat.”

“It runs in my family.” Stop panting! Why the hell are you panting? You sound like a Labrador!

Declan’s thumb moves slowly back and forth over my throbbing, tattletale vein. His gaze drops to my mouth.

“Would you like to know what runs in my family, little cat?”

There’s a voice between my legs screaming Boy, would I! but with a valiant effort, I ignore it.

When I don’t answer, Declan leans close to my ear and murmurs, “That’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Aye, lass, you did. Just not in words.”

I want to scream. I want to punch him in the throat. I want to stomp on his toe and slap his arrogant face and slash every stupid black suit in his closet to shreds.

Instead, I muster my dignity and say calmly, “You wish.”

He inhales against my neck, his nose skimming the sensitive spot underneath my nose. It makes goose bumps break out all along my arms.

Then he withdraws abruptly and releases my shoulder. He steps back, blinking, looking like he’s not sure what just came over him, and also that he’d like to give himself a black eye.

He digs into his jacket pocket and produces a cell phone. He thrusts it at me.

“Here.”

He pauses for a rough throat clearing as I take the phone. “My number’s programmed in. If you need something, text me. You can’t dial out except for that number. There’s no internet connection. Don’t bother trying to contact anyone else.”

He spins on his heel and strides out of the closet.

“Wait!” I run after him. He’s already halfway across the room. “Declan!”

He stops at the door. Without turning around, he says gruffly, “What?”

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as what takes?”

He’s silent for a moment, debating with himself, then turns and faces me. His expression is grim. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but those MS-13 lads who shot at us? That wasn’t a rescue attempt.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they were trying to kill us. Both.”

A chill runs down my spine. “Why would they try to kill me? You said Kage sent them.”

“No, I said your abduction wouldn’t go over well with him. And that was accurate. He did mobilize his own soldiers to form a rescue party. But somehow, the other syndicates discovered the identity of my cargo as well.”

Cargo. I’m nothing more than a package to these people. “And?”

“I told you. We’re at war. You’re a valued member of the Bratva—”

“Whoa. Hold on. I’m not in the Russian mafia.”

Declan gazes at me with dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re loved by some who are.”

Natalie. Stavros. Oh god. “So you’re saying now I’m a gangster by default?”

“What you are is a target. Because of the shootings that happened at the annual Christmas Eve meeting of the families, Kazimir closed down all the ports, disrupted distribution pipelines, sabotaged shipments, and interrupted the flow of money. Everyone’s hurting. If the other families get their hands on you, you’ll be used as either a bargaining chip or…”

Payback.

He doesn’t have to say it. I understand where this story leads.

Holding his gaze, I say, “And which will you use me for?”

“If I wanted you dead, you already would be.”

“So it’ll be a negotiation, then.”

“I’m not negotiating with that piece of rubbish.”

There’s something hateful in his tone, something that hints at old vendettas and even older scars. He despises Kage, that much is clear, but also seems to think he’s superior to him.

As if one racketeering, drug-smuggling, money-laundering criminal is better than another.

“If I’m not a bargaining chip to you, or a means for retaliation, what am I? Why am I here?”

“I already told you, lass. Right now, it’s safer for you with me than anywhere else.”

It hits me then: Declan saved my life.

If what he’s saying is true and MS-13 had managed to get their hands on me… No. I won’t think about that.

I also don’t want to think about what it means that my kidnapper has turned into my protector. My head isn’t equipped to handle that particular mindfuck just yet.

There are a million different things I want to say, things that would make so much more sense, but what comes out of my mouth surprises us both.

“Thank you.”

There isn’t a word to describe his expression. Maybe boggled.

“What?”

“I said thank you. If what you just told me is true, you saved my life. I owe you one.”

He stares at me like I’m an alien who just landed on his lawn and informed him I needed his kidneys or an entire race of intelligent beings in some distant galaxy would die.

I make my voice stronger. “I’m not saying that to make you angry.”

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay. So.”

“So.”

We stare at each other. I’m aware of every inch of skin on my body. My stomach takes the opportunity to emit a loud rumble into the awkward silence.

“You need food.” Declan shakes his head as if the realization makes him irritated with himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Yes. Please.”

“Anything else?”

When I hesitate, he says, “I’ll let your girlfriend know you’re safe.”

I don’t understand this polite, protective kidnapper. What happened to the growling jerk? “Thank you. Again. But that’s not what I was thinking.”

He can see I’m uncomfortable. He lifts his brows, waiting.

“I need toiletries. Girl things.”

“Just text me a list. I’ll get whatever you need.”

My surprise is so great, I can’t hold it in. “You’ll buy me tampons?”

His mouth does something strange. Is he trying not to smile?

“No. I’ll send Kieran.”

“Not Kieran.”

“Why not?”

“I’m trying to get on his good side.”

“Because?”

“There’s nothing that hurts a man’s pride like being seen as weak in front of his friends. I don’t want to embarrass him more than I already have.”

Declan does his head tilt thing that he does whenever he’s really looking at me. His eyes are penetrating. Examining. Knowing.

It makes me flustered. “I might need to make him fall in love with me and break me out of here, okay? Jesus.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Okay.”

Then he sighs heavily, rakes a hand through his hair, and seems to gather himself. Standing taller and smoothing a hand over his tie, he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw.

It strikes me that he doesn’t want to go back outside.

Not because he wants to stay with me, but because whatever or whoever is waiting for him, he’s dreading it.

When he turns to go, I say impulsively, “Hey. Gangster.”

He turns back, his smile faint. “Aye, lass?”

“You got this.”

He frowns a little, not understanding.

“You heard me. Whatever you’re about to go do, you’re gonna do great. Just take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.”

Looking stunned, he repeats faintly, “Remember…?”

“That’s what I always tell myself when I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Remember who you are.”

I can tell he doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. “And who are you?”

“The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.”

His lips part. He gazes at me for a long, silent moment. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby. That’s it, isn’t it?”

I have to smile at the depth of his astonishment. “No. There was no dropping. I was the middle kid, so I was mostly just ignored. But I did learn to be my own cheerleader, and you know what? The more you try to believe in yourself, the more you actually do. Your mental self-talk is very powerful. You have to keep it positive. So just go out there, say to yourself, ‘I got this,’ and believe it. You’ll be fine.”

Now he looks angry. “You’re giving me a pep talk?”

“You look like you could use one.”

He says flatly, “You’re not from this planet.”

“Thank you.”

Irritated by my smile, his old glare-that-could-melt-steel returns. Muttering something under his breath, he turns around, yanks open the door, and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him.