His Captive

Besides, I saw the way Robert looked at me. Those blue eyes had something in them, beyond the usual disdain. The dark man had looked almost ravenous, hungry and demanding, hating himself at the same time.

It was absolutely hypnotizing.

Maybe my lack of sleep is making me delirious.

Maybe I’m going crazy.

Maybe I was always crazy.

Sighing deep, I lay back, putting my knitting to the side. It’s been a long day, and I need rest. Even though that means falling asleep and leaving myself vulnerable to the hulking man downstairs, it can’t be avoided forever.

But even as I try to rest, my mind travels back to my mysterious captor.

Who is he?

That whole story he’d given me about how I seduced his younger brother just isn’t making sense. Because in what life could I seduce anybody?

Robert has it all wrong. Honestly. I’m just a small town homebody. Add bookworm and wallflower to that list and you’ll see why the art of seduction isn’t exactly my specialty. The wrongness of it all is ludicrous.

And he’s rich? Or he’s from a rich family? That part’s still unclear. What was the name that Ann-Marie mentioned this morning? Chance who? Morrison? Or Morgan? I shake my head, frustrated. It seems like this morning was a lifetime ago, decades and decades in the past.

My brain is in no condition to recall that information, so I give up, discouraged. Whoever the Morgans are, they must be loaded if they’re always playing defense, ready to smack down any gold digging women.

And if you let Robert tell it, I’m that whore. But his assessment of me couldn’t be further from the truth. Because last time I checked, my cherry’s still intact. That’s right. I’m twenty years old, and I’ve never slept with a single man. Fingers haven’t even penetrated my tunnel, I’ve never let the boys get to third. So yeah, Robert couldn’t be more wrong. My only boyfriends live in books, and it’s worked for me so far.

Oh well.

It’s not like I could pop out my hymen and show it to him. Sucks to be me, my only proof is stuck deep inside. I try to relax, but my mind spins furiously, unable to fall asleep.

Because what was it he said about the golddigging? God, no.

Actually, hell no.

What kind of woman does he take me for? I would never stoop so low and it’s offensive that he would even accuse me of such a thing. But then I start giggling because his awful words are so far off base that it’s actually laughable.

God, I really am delirious. A crazy woman locked in a room, screaming like a hyena. It’s like I’m the wife from Jane Eyre, the one burns down the manor.

But seriously. No matter how tight things get for me financially, marrying someone solely for their bank account isn’t an option. My pride would never let me leech off of another human. I’d much rather struggle with nothing than to let someone have that kind of power over me.

Besides, I’m not exactly built in the mold of a sugar baby. I’m sure sugar daddies like tanned, long-legged blonde chicks. With my red hair, pale skin and curvy frame, I’m the complete opposite of what they’re looking for.

And speaking of sugar babies, my thoughts shift immediately to my little sister. Ann-Marie is a lot of things, but I don’t think she’s after some man’s money. She may be fickle and irresponsible, but I don’t think she’d take it that far.

More likely, she’s just thoughtless. Eighteen and flighty as a bird, Anne-Marie flirts with guys left and right. So she met this Chance Morgan dude, and they think it’s true love after one night. That’s not exactly a crime. I sigh again. Typical Ann-Marie, give her a month and she’d be over it.

I shake my head again. How in the world are we sisters? How in the world are we even related? We’re opposites, the only similarity our red hair. And even then, my sister’s is a bright strawberry blonde, perfect for getting attention, while mine is more of a chestnut, almost a brown.

But sisters we are, and not just that, but orphans too. She and I only have each other on this earth, which is really sad. Because I genuinely don’t think my sis is a bad person. Maybe it’s naïve, but I genuinely don’t think Ann-Marie is truly evil and nasty. It’s more that she’s young and self-centered, using her looks to get by.

So sighing again, I lie back again, trying to relax. My eyes scan the room reflexively. Although this is technically my new prison cell, the digs aren’t too shabby. The place is immaculate, not a single speck of dust coats the furniture.

And since he dumped me in here, I’ve had the chance to take inventory several times.