We lie together for a long time in the library. His big solid chest reassuringly my pillow and his arm my safety belt. I don’t know whether I slept there, or what time it was when Marco slid my hoody back down, carried me upstairs and laid me into his bed. I was too exhausted and sated to think. But I remember his presence and rumbling voice telling me, “Go to sleep. It’s been a long night.”
I’ve never slept in the same bed as anyone. He’s warm. Big, too. I hadn’t thought of sleeping by myself as lonely. I’d just accepted it was cold, and tucked myself into a ball most nights and waited to fall asleep.
Being his means that he tucks me into his bed and spoons his body to my back. Slipping into oblivion with Marco at my back… That’s different. For the first time in my life I’m not alone when I lose consciousness.
I wake to the scent of Marco on the pillow, salty ocean and musk, but no warm presence behind me. Cracking one eye open, I regard his bedroom with trepidation. It’s austere and simple, only softened by the yellow light of dappled sunshine. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a woodland and I watch as a red and white and black bird swoops in and lands on a tree trunk.
He lives in the countryside, or has a garden so big it might as well be the countryside.
A bird feeder is hung high in the branches of a tree just outside the window, close. It’s covered with half a dozen little birds of all colours, pecking away. They dive and squabble, their wings a blur. The birds with gold, red, and black markings stay on the feeder, jostling and feasting. But the little pink, white, and grey birds hang back, waiting for a gap then darting in to snatch a bit of food before beating their wings to fly away.
They all have their strategies, and have come to get their breakfast, confident in their provider.
Huh. Big scary mob boss likes to watch the birds.
And kidnap girls, give them orgasms, tell them they’re his, make them think they’ve lucked out, then leave them alone. Why didn’t he just allow me to escape?
“You’re awake.”
I scramble to roll over, clutching the covers to my chest even as relief floods into me. Marco is sitting in a blue armchair wearing a crisp white shirt open at the neck, revealing a strong, tanned neck and the dip between his collarbones. He has a laptop on his knees and is wearing black-rimmed reading glasses. And his mouth—the same mouth that he put on my pussy last night until I screamed with pleasure—turns up in a slow smile. It starts in his eyes and spreads across his face in a slide of light and heat like the sun rising on a summer’s morning.
He removes his glasses and although I have a pang for the loss of his casual hot professor look, the better view of his pale blue eyes makes up for it. He appears happy to see me, and it makes me shy. I don’t know what to do with this approval. I’m not used to it, and am half expecting to be told off for sleeping in, but he nods to his side of the bed.
“There’s breakfast for you.”
I turn and find a neat wooden tray covered with dozens of mini pastries, a cafetière of coffee, orange juice, a bowl of melon and strawberries, and what looks like blueberry muffins. My stomach rumbles in response and Marco’s laughter washes over me, warm and affectionate as I blush.
“All my favourites,” I mutter into a croissant, snatching it up before it’s taken away.
“Always.”
It’s not a question about whether he stalked me, or an answer. But it skirts too close for me. What if it wasn’t him? The crispy-soft buttery pastry in my mouth means I don’t have to reply.
I think I’m almost willing to admit—to myself at least—I like that he watched me. If it was him. And sure, not having to tell him what I want to eat for breakfast is a bonus, but it’s not the main reason. The truth is, the thought he’s gone to trouble for me is the smell of perfectly-baked cupcakes: mouth-watering anticipation of comfort and delight.
What would it be like to bite into that proffered cupcake? To accept the promise of what he offered rather than going to Scotland?
True, he gave me up very easily, offering to send me north in the morning after he chased me last night. Will he still do that? The croissant suddenly feels dry in my mouth. I take a sip of orange juice, and despite it being fresh and sweet, all I can taste is the sour.
“When am I leaving?” This is like a band aid. Easier to cope with if I rip it off and make it hurt all at once.
Marco puts aside his laptop and comes over to the bed, towering over me. His height and the evident strength of his body makes my tummy squirm and my nipples stand to attention. He’s gorgeous and I’m entirely in his power.
“Whenever you like,” he says eventually. “You’re not a prisoner.”
I gulp. “Now.”
Marco’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t comment. Just gestures for me to go with him, holding out his hand. His palm envelops mine with strong warmth.
I manage to not cry as I leave behind that delicious breakfast and sunlit bedroom where Marco slept with me, his arm possessively over my waist.
I should have said tomorrow, or never, because I’m desperate for more information about my captor. Trying to take in all the details of his home is futile. I crane my neck as I follow him downstairs, admiring abstract art and elegant sculptures in the modern but warm house. I’m still wearing my cotton pyjamas and hoody as we enter the marble-floored entrance hall and I wrap one arm uselessly around my ribcage.
A murmured request to a man waiting for Marco’s command and a black limo purrs outside.
My heart is breaking. I don’t want to do this. He’s really going to let me go? After all his declarations last night. This morning. Whenever.
He leans over and brushes a kiss on my hair. “It’s okay.”
It’s not. I have this feeling like I missed out the baking powder in my cake mixture. I’ve missed something important and it’s all flat.
“I’m here,” he murmurs. “Though my fingers might not be for much longer unless you stop trying to break them.”
“What?” It’s only when he lifts our joined hands that I realise I’m gripping onto him like he’s the only thing holding me onto the planet. “Sorry,” I mutter, tears prickling as I begin to withdraw my hand.
He doesn’t let me, lacing our fingers together and squeezing.
“Come on.” With his other arm, he holds me to his chest and carries me out to the limo, our hands still linked together. I don’t want to let go.
He ducks into the limo and sets me down on the leather seat.
I have what I was aiming for. My savings, my father gone and not able to hunt me down. Freedom.
I need him. The kingpin who saw me, saved me, caught me, and has cared for me.
“Marco…”
He sits next to me and my heart pulses.
“What?” he asks casually, pulling me into his body. “You didn’t think I was letting you go alone, did you?”
Yes. Idiot that I am, I thought he was sending me to Scotland, not accompanying me. Thank god. I have longer with Marco before the consequences of my poor, if seemingly rational, decisions materialise.
“How long does it take to get to Scotland?” I ask because I am apparently all in for torturing myself.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Six hours. Ish. But we need to make a couple of stops on the way.”
Stops? What for?
