Captive Beauty

But only four years later, he was free. Only four years for a brutal act of murder. Both the suicide and the murder had taken place on the property only days apart. I’d tried to gain access to the trial records, but the case had been sealed and this house had sat empty, I guessed apart from maintenance judging from the state it was in, since the day Killian had been taken into custody.

Kill’s uncle’s death, like so many things, got lost in the weeks following as other news stories took over the headlines. And no matter how much I dug, I couldn’t find anything more about the story and I knew there was a cover-up.

And now I stand wondering why in hell he’s brought me here.

Day turns into night before I hear his voice in the hallway. I get up from my place on the bed and want to put my boots back on, but don’t have a chance to before the door opens and Killian Black stands in it, looking like a giant, a formidable force. He’s no longer wearing his suit jacket or tie and his shirt sleeves are rolled half-way up thick, tattooed forearms. The top two buttons are undone and I see the dark ink of another tattoo on his chest.

I’ve been thinking about how to handle this the whole day. Wondering if I should tell him I know who he is. Know what he did. But when I see him, it’s like all my courage dissolves.

Kill walks inside and looks around the room. I wish I’d had time to put on the boots because I’m two inches shorter without them and I need the height with him. Seeming satisfied with the room, he looks me over.

“Your STD test came back negative.”

“I could have told you it would.”

He glances up at the canopy over the bed before returning his gaze to me. “Are you comfortable?”

“Is this where I’ll be locked up for the next thirty days?” I don’t know why I’m being combative. It’s like I can’t control the words as they come hurtling out.

He steps closer, a devilish grin playing on his lips, and takes my arms, rubbing them up and down—he’s holding back, I can tell—before closing his hands over them. “There are less hospitable rooms.”

“I’m sure there are.”

“You’re ungrateful.”

“I know who you are.”

He studies my face, searches my eyes. I don’t know what I expect him to say, not sure he realizes I mean I know what he did. Not when he doesn’t acknowledge my comment.

“Dinner’s ready. We’ll talk about rules and expectations after we eat. You’re hungry, I presume.” Someone had come up with food earlier but I’d turned it away out of pure stubbornness and regretted it later because they hadn’t asked me twice.

I nod, because the growling of my stomach tells him yes, I’m starving.

He walks into the closet and returns a moment later with a dress. It’s a calf-length pale violet dress with spaghetti straps. He tosses it on the bed along with a pair of strappy sandals.

“Change.”

I look at it, then at him. “It’s cold for that, don’t—”

“Change.”

I exhale, and pick up the dress, making a point of checking the size, turning my nose up at it even though it’s beautiful. “Can I have some privacy?” I ask finally.

“No.”

My jaw tightens.

“This can go like last night went, but if that happens, it’ll be me stripping you and taking you downstairs to eat naked in front of the staff.”

I swallow. His tone is just this side of controlled. My hands shake as I pull my sweater over my head, then push my jeans off. I take the dress off the hanger and go to slip it on but he stops me.

“Nothing underneath.”

I look up at him, then down, closing my eyes for a moment before reaching back to undo my bra. He watches silently as I take it off. I then slide off my panties, everything feeling like déjà vu. It’s humbling, this re-enactment of the night before. I pull the dress over my head. The silk is cool against my skin, and my nipples push against the fine material. It comes to just past my knees and is a perfect fit. I sit on the bed to slip on the sandals. He watches me quietly and when I stand, he looks me over, gives me a nod and gestures to the door.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I walk ahead of him out into the now abandoned hallway, acutely aware of his eyes on me, a fine layer of silk the only thing protecting me from his gaze. For now. We go down the stairs. As we near the lush dining room, the smell of dinner makes my stomach groan again. If he hears, he doesn’t say anything.

The dining room table is a rectangle that can seat about sixteen. Two places are set, and when we reach them, Kill pulls out my chair. I sit and watch as he takes his place at the head of the table. The large crystal chandelier blinks once. We both glance up at it.