Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

That early morning guilt condition I suffer from crashes head-on into me. I’ve fucked the man who hijacked us, and Mint may be dead somewhere on the road. Mint never crossed my mind, not while Ian was inside me, not for a second. Does that make me a despicable human being?

He takes a detour to the Kloof and returns via the hilly side to the center. He doesn’t ask for directions or where I live. He doesn’t have to. He saw my address in my ID book. It’s disconcerting that he knows, and my stomach clenches with the realization. He parks a block away at the back of my apartment building and cuts the engine.

This is the moment. He can still change his mind. I’m tense all over again. The fear stomps over everything else in my chest. It won’t settle, not yet.

I can’t look away from his face. I can’t stop searching his eyes for a joke or a lie as he takes my bag from the back and pushes it into my hand. It’s too easy. Life has taught me to never trust anything that comes too easily.

My breath catches on a quiet hitch when he grabs my face in his big hand, splaying his fingers over one cheek and digging his thumb into the other.

His voice is hot and sinister. “You don’t have to be afraid, pretty doll. Nothing is going to happen to you if you’ll be a good girl for me, but you know what has to happen to bad girls. Right?” He drags me so close his breath steals inside my parted lips, feeding me his air. “Don’t think for one second I won’t come after you.” He seals the promise with a kiss so tender it’s nothing more than a brush of his lips and adds in a soft tone, “I know where you live.”

My insides freeze over while my skin burns up. He disarms me with a touch, possesses me with dominance, and terrifies me with tenderness.

He motions toward my block with a flick of his head, making that messy fringe fall over his eyes, and says in a deep and unwavering voice, “Walk.”

Walk.

A single command.

He’s setting me free. He’s letting me go.

Is it a false promise? Is it going to be like in that movie where the abductor tells his captive he’s letting her go, that she has to walk away without looking back, and then he shoots her?

I swallow.

He leans over me and opens the door. “Walk, baby doll.”

I get out on shaky legs. I don’t look back. I walk.

Every step I take feels like I’m walking a tightrope. When I get to the corner, the engine revs. I’m shaking. Before I’ve rounded the corner, I hear him pull off. He’s driving slowly behind me, following me, and when I take the path that cuts through the back garden, the truck idles on the curb.

Tears stream over my face. They’re from built-up tension, relief, and stress. It’s not over until I’m inside. My hand shakes as I punch in my code at the back entrance, counting the seconds until the click sounds and the door springs open.

Tires squeal. The truck takes off. The door shuts behind me, blocking out the noise from outside. The familiar smell of terracotta tile polish infiltrates my nose. I’m inside. I’ve made it.

I sag against the mailboxes, my legs giving out. A sob escapes as I slide to the floor. I stay there, sucking in air and trying to control the dry heaves that won’t let me breathe.

Inside. I have to get to my apartment.

Somehow, I manage to get a grip and climb back onto my feet. I miraculously stay on my impractical heels as I cross the lobby and go up the flight of stairs. I’m trembling so badly I’m battling to fit my key. It drops with a clank on the landing, sounding deafening in the early morning silence. Most people aren’t up yet.

The door next to mine opens just as I finally get the key to turn.

Mrs. Steyn sticks her head around the frame. Her hair is in curlers. She scrunches up her face as she takes me in. “Shame on you, sneaking back here in the same clothes you left in last night. He won’t marry you if you slept with him. Men don’t buy the milk if they can get the cow for free.”

Too drained for this argument, I push inside my apartment.

“The police were here,” she calls, shuffling outside in her slippers and pulling together the edges of a carnation-pink bathrobe. “They came asking for you.”

I still. Mint. Thank, God. He made it. “What did they say?”

“Not much. Just to call them when you get home. It’s drugs, isn’t it? I knew you were mixed up with the wrong people.”