In fact, this is very, very bad.
“Mmm.” A river of tears runs from my eyes. “Mmm…”
“Little devil.” His lips are on my ear, and then—fuck. The needle pokes through my skin. “You really shouldn’t have come here.”
If my whimper sounds defeated, it’s because it is.
The sedative plunges into my veins.
My body gives up.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” are the last words I hear before everything goes black.
32
ALARIC
“You beautiful, curious creature,” I say to the unconscious Lilith. My face twists as hurt consumes me. I’ve never experienced this type of agony. It’s tearing me apart. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Why didn’t you believe in me?”
Even as I ask these questions, there’s not a shred of disappointment or anger inside me. Only love.
I’m aware it doesn’t look that way.
To an outsider, drugging a woman, gagging her, then binding her to the bed with her limbs spread, reads as madness.
As abuse.
Except that isn’t the case.
When I brought her up to my apartment, I took care of her. I soaked her in a tub with me behind her. Brushed herhair. Dressed her in comfortable sweatpants and a gray sweater, the same color I’m wearing.
Then I made sure she wouldn’t feel an ounce of pain while I ran down to the nearest clothing store and bought the softest scarves they had. I was achingly careful not to cinch them too tightly around her wrists, ankles, and head when I returned home.
I’ve been kind and gentle. I’ve been proving to her, even in her sleep, that I’m not angry.
But just because I’m doing what’s right doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker.
That ache has been lodged in my chest ever since I saw her stepping into my storage unit.
As I watched her walk around my space, questions like how she got the key or figured out the unit was mine didn’t matter.
Her silence was what got to me. She didn’t say a word. Not to Fraser, not anOh my God, orWhat the hell?
Screaming, crying, gasping, I could’ve worked with that.
Instead, she was stunned into silence.
As if the whole thing was too horrifying, as if it sent her into a state of shock.
As if she couldn’t believe that I—the man she dreamed of spending the rest of her life with—had kidnapped someone.
She might’ve even started thinking that I was no better than her mother. That I’m not worthy of her.
She’s right. I’m not.
And yet I’m not letting her go.
That’s why I’m doing this, holding her here until she realizes that, murderer or not, she’s mine.