Going over to the bed, she looked at the envelope that held the note to her father, telling him she was leaving and not coming back, telling him what a worthless father and husband he’d been. Hell, she didn’t owe that asshole anything, especially not an explanation on why she was leaving. But writing the letter had been a sort of therapy for her. It let her vent, to get emotions off of her chest. Holly couldn’t face him, couldn’t say those things to him, not with fear, disappointment, and an array of other suffocating emotions holding her back.

  She picked up the picture of her and her mother when Holly was only a child, and smiled. She ran her finger over the image of her mom when she was healthy, happy. Putting the frame in her bag, she zipped it up, and just as she was about to head out, the sound of tires on the gravel driveway had her freezing. Her heart started racing, and she walked over to the window, seeing the tailgate of her father’s old truck peeking out from behind the corner of the house. He wasn’t supposed to be home for another couple of hours, and facing him when she was about to leave wasn’t an ideal situation. But her room was on the second floor, and climbing out the window like some adolescent school rebel sneaking out wasn’t an option.

  “Holly,” her father bellowed out from downstairs, and she felt her heart stall before it started beating fast and hard again.

  “Dammit.” Well, she’d have to get this over with eventually. Grabbing her bag and the envelope, she headed downstairs. She wouldn’t be the emotional or physical punching bag for him anymore. Stepping on the landing, she heard him in the kitchen getting a bottle out of the freezer. She glanced at the front door, which was only a few feet away, set the envelope on the stairs, and decided to just go.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Holly looked over her shoulder at her father. His eyes were already bloodshot, and he held a bottle of vodka.

  “I’m leaving.” She didn’t wait for his response, or to elaborate, and just opened the front door and stepped out onto the patio. But before she could take the steps her father grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back with enough force that she dropped her bag and stumbled backward.

  “You think you’re going to just up and leave me now that your mom is gone?” He turned her to face him, and she clenched her teeth, so tired of being pushed around, of feeling less than what she was.

  “I’m done with this, with you. You weren’t there for us, for mom when she was sick.” The words just came out, but she was glad, and wouldn’t have taken them back.

  “You’ve always been ungrateful. You had a roof over your head and food in your gut. You had it good—”

  “You call this having it good?” she kept her voice down, so the neighbors didn’t hear, but pushed her sleeves up, showing the cigarette burn scars. “You think getting burned by cigarettes because your dad’s drunk and doesn’t give a shit about you, a good time?” She shook her head and pushed her sleeves back down. “You think having bruises covering my body, having to make sure no one saw, was what a child should have to go through? Truth is you were a horrible, piece of shit father and an even worse husband.” The slap came swift and strong, her head cocked to the side, and she instantly tasted blood on the inside of her mouth.

  “Watch it, little girl.” He brought the bottle up to his mouth and took a long drink from it.

  She shook her head, reached down to grab her bag, and felt strength rise in her. “That was the last time you ever lay your hands on me again.”

  “The last fucking time.”

  The deep voice that came from behind her had Holly spinning around. Standing in the shadows partially hidden was a huge man, but even if she couldn’t see his face very well, she knew exactly who it was. Her heart stopped, her palms started to sweat, and she took a step to the side. He was here? But why? How did he know where to find me?

  He took a step forward, the porch light casting a harsh glow across his stern expression. He seemed bigger than the last time she saw him. He looked dangerous, still had that aura around him that had the flight or fight instinct rising, and she knew she was stuck in a very dangerous spot.

  “Who the fuck are you?” her father said in a slurred, angry voice.

  The man didn’t speak but moved closer. Holly was frozen in her spot as she watched him take the few steps up to the porch, slowly move past her with his focus trained right on her, and stop a few inches from where her father stood. He kept his body in front of her, as if shielding her from her father.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” he said in a steely, thick and deep voice.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” her father responded. “Get the hell off my property.

  But the man didn’t say anything in return, and instead, let out a dangerous growl in the back of his throat. Before Holly could even react, her father lifted the bottle of vodka and went to slam it on the side of the mystery man’s head. But the glass didn’t connect with his skull. The man lifted his hand, gripped her father’s wrist, stopping him from making contact, and made another low sound in his throat. The position he was in now allowed Holy to see him fully. His face remained emotionless, and Holly thought that was the most frightening part of him. He seemed so detached, so cold and apathetic.

  The man slammed his fist into her father’s face. His palm connected with her dad’s nose and the sound of bone crunching was a disgusting cacophony of sound. She dry heaved as blood started to pour out of her dad’s nose. Her father howled about and started fighting back, but he was drunk, sloppy, and the mystery man was coordinated, concentrated, and clearly knew what he was doing. With one final punch to the face her father spun around, hit the front door, and slid to the ground. He groaned before freezing, and although he was still breathing and had just gotten the shit kicked out of him, a part of Holly wished he’d been put out of his miserable existence.

  She stood there for a second, looking at her father, and then lifted her gaze to the mystery man. God, he stood there watching her, blood on his knuckles, his face stoic, hard. She took a step back, stumbled off the step, and fell hard on her ass on the landing. Her bag slipped off her shoulder, but Holly grabbed it, stood, and all but ran to her car. He still stood on the patio as she climbed in and shut the door, her hands shaking, her mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. As she put the keys in the ignition, her heart pounding, her body screaming she needed to run, another part of her was … aroused. Her nipples were hard, and her body felt like it was on fire. It was all so misplaced, and she was confused, so damn confused that she was crying from her turbulent emotions.

  She turned her key, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. She tried several times, cursing at herself and the damn car, but then sucked in a breath when she saw the man was now standing right beside her driver’s side door. He reached for the handle, and she realized because of her fear and confusion she’d forgotten to lock it. She grabbed the handle, trying to close it as he tried to open it. But because he was so much stronger than she was, he opened it easily, overpowering her. She scrambled onto the passenger seat, but he grabbed her leg and pulled her toward him. His touch was like fire on her skin. Heating her even further, having her heart skip a beat, and making her scream out. He leaned inside the car, and before she knew what he was doing, he had a rag covering her mouth and nose. She gasped, breathing harder from her fear, and smelling the sweet scent from the rag move into her lungs.

  Only seconds had passed before she felt a drug-like sensation move over her until her limbs felt like they were filled with lead, and the realization that she might never wake up slammed into her. The man’s stoic face close to hers was the last thing she saw before darkness took her away.

  Chapter Three

  Sound came back to her first, and then the memories of what had happened. But despite not knowing if her father was dead or alive, she didn’t feel remorse for the man, didn’t have that guilt, that worry that she felt she should have. The truth was her father had gotten had been what he deserved. But that didn’t mean her current situation didn’t frighten her, especially since she’d been drugged.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and blinking back the double vision, the grogginess, and the feeling to throw up, Holly finally felt herself level out. She didn’t move, but the feeling of softness beneath her told her she was probably on a bed. Looking around told her she was clearly in a bedroom, sparkly decorated, but the things that were in the room appeared expensive. Holly closed her eyes again, breathing in and out slowly, trying to get herself feeling “normal” again before she tackled what in the hell she was going to do. When she opened her eyes, a cry left her at the sight of the man standing right across from her, the shadows covering him partially, but his focus right on her.

  Pushing back all of the sudden queasiness, she scrambled away from him and ended up finding herself on the floor as she’d fallen off the bed. The sudden drop had the air rushing out of her, but she kept moving away, scrambling on the floor, trying to get further from the man until the wall finally stopped her retreat. He didn’t move from his spot on the bed between them, and he continued staring at her like he was waiting for the right moment to attack.

  The seconds ticked by with neither speaking, neither moving. Finally, he walked from around the bed and stopped a few feet from her. “You must be hungry, thirsty?” he asked, his voice deep, scratchy.

  She shook her head, the very thought of consuming something abhorrent at the moment. “Where am I? Why am I here?” Of course, she had a load of other questions, but she was feeling around, not sure what his intentions were. Holly didn’t think he meant to hurt her, not when he’d saved her at the club, and then hurt her father, but she knew nothing about him.

  “Come into the living room with me and we can talk.” He looked at her for just a second before speaking again. “You’re safe.” He held her gaze for a suspended second. “I’m not going to talk to you as you cower before me, Holly.”

  Okay, so he knew her name, and he’d clearly been watching her. She should have felt something more than numbness. Holly should have screamed, kicked, fought for escape, but instead, she sat there staring up at him.

  After a moment, he turned and left her alone in the room. The door was open, but there was no window, locking her in, making her feel like she was in a coffin, a prison. She stood, knowing she should be scared shitless right now, but she didn’t feel that freezing sensation, that flight or fight response she felt when she ran to her car. It was strange, irrational, and she didn’t know if she was still in shock.

  Looking around the room for another few seconds, she slowly made her way toward the door. She stayed in the doorway for longer than she normally would have, but she was nervous, not sure what was going on, and confused by what she felt.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” the man said from somewhere out of the bedroom, but his voice made her feel the opposite. “I could have hurt you a hundred times over by now, Holly.” He let a moment of silence pass. “But I’ve saved you, twice, and that alone should tell you, or at least have you feeling, a semblance of safety.”

  His voice was deep, sharp, like a whip, moving over her flesh and causing this sting of pain to encompass her entire frame. She stepped out of the room, her hands shaking, her palms sweating.

  Like he said, if he wanted to hurt you, he could have.

  She told herself that over and over again as she moved further into the living room. There was a window that came into view, a wide, massive window that showed a cityscape. She stopped, everything in her stilling even further. She was in the city? And clearly high up given the view she was looking at. Tearing her gaze away from the buildings separated from her only by the glass, she scanned the living room, and saw it was sparsely decorated, only holding the essentials, but was still expensive in appearance.

  “Where am I?” she asked again, her voice shaking, her entire body tense. She didn’t see him, but heard noise around the corner. She moved closer, tentative, hesitant, her nerves making her heart beat so fast it was painful. When she finally saw him, it was to see him in a modern, stainless steel adorned kitchen, and his back to her.

  “You’re here because you were running.” He didn’t bother looking at her as he spoke. When he finally turned around, he held a glass of water in one hand and a plate of food in the other. He tipped his chin to the table, and she found herself moving toward it and taking a seat, even if she should be fighting him on this, fighting for her freedom. He set the plate and glass in front of her and took the seat across from her. She wasn’t hungry, and the sight of it had her stomach clenching.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked, her focus on the sandwich and carrots on the plate, a nutritious meal that could have had her laughing because it was something a child might eat, but her situation tightened her throat too much.

  “No, but I should have.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “Why didn’t you?” her throat was so tight, her voice so low.

  He didn’t answer for what seemed like forever, but he finally leaned back in his chair. The cityscape was his backdrop, the light on in the kitchen dim. Everything was covered in shadows, seeming ominous, foreboding.

  “Are you asking because you wanted me to, or because I seem like the type of man to do something like that?”

  She shook her head, but she didn’t know what she was responding to.

  You know. A part of you wanted your father dead.

  “You look like a man that would kill someone that crossed you.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and just continued to stare at her.

  She shifted on the seat, looking at the food, and then lifting he gaze back to him. “Why am I here? Who are you?” He was like stone, hard, unyielding, and seemingly indestructible.

  She had her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

  “You’re here because I wanted you here, Holly. You’re here because you’re mine.”

  Everything around her stilled at his words, and she felt a droplet of sweat start to fall down her temple. But it wasn’t just about her fear of the situation, the unknown of what was happening, but the fact her body felt drawn to him. It was all so confusing and irrational, and the way she felt toward him, that arousal she felt that was a slow simmer inside of her, made no fucking sense.

  “Who are you?” she whispered the question again, knowing her eyes were wide, her emotion evident in her expression.

  He leaned forward, the slash of light coming from the kitchen washing over his face as he looked right into her eyes. “You know me, Holly.” He passed for a moment. “You belong with me, to me, and I’ll show you that no matter what it takes.”

  Chapter Four

  As she stared in his eyes, really thought about how he knew him, it suddenly clicked.

  Kline.

  That name moved through her mind repeatedly. She knew this man, had heard his name before, but it had been years ago. Her stomach knotted up as she placed in, remembered the times she saw him. It left her breathless, like she’d been hit with a ton of bricks.

  Alex Kline.

  It was like this light going off inside of her, this epiphany of the twisted kind. As she stared at the man that had taken her, claimed she’d be his, and saved her on more than one occasion, remembrance hit her entire body over and over again.

  “You know who I am,” he said without phrasing it as a question.

  She slowly nodded. Yes, she knew who he was. She’d first met him when she was only eighteen years old. He’d been the attorney to give her mother advice on legal matters concerning the end of life issues, a Will, and Power of Attorney. That seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she remembered him, and it seemed so clear now.

  How had I not recognized him right away?

  “Yes, I do know you,” she whispered, but confusion still filled her. She tried to recall that meeting she’d gone on with her mother. Her father had been a deadbeat for as long as Holly could remember, and Holly had gone for moral support for her mother who had just been diagnosed with cancer. But after that first visit with Alex Kline her mother hadn’t gone back to him. Maybe it was because her mother didn’t want to fully take in what she’d been told about her health—which Holly couldn’t blame her—or maybe she’d seen the darkness in Alex? Either way no papers had been signed and filed.

  They didn’t speak, didn’t even look away from each other for long moments. It was like this man could see into her soul with his piercing, dark and cold expression. She remembered that visit, how he’d stared right into her eyes. She’d shifted in her seat, squirmed from the intensity in which he held her focus. And when she’d left she’d felt his gaze on her, only to have it affirmed when she’d looked at him once more over her shoulder before she left.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” she said again, shaking her head. He was leaning back in the seat again, one arm outstretched on the table, the other over the back of the chair. She felt her pulse beat in the center of her throat, an almost choking feeling that had her lightheaded.

  He still didn’t answer, just stared at her.

  “Why?” was all she could ask because it seemed to sum up everything that had happened.

  “You were running, right?” he asked, but his tone suggested he already knew the answer. She stayed silent, though. “You lost everything,” he said again, his voice so intense, so distant, yet genuine. “And now you have nothing.”

  She felt her eyes start to water, felt the tears threaten to fall as she looked at this man that spoke the truth.

  “You have no right,” Holly said, referring to the fact he thought he knew her, knew what her life was like. “How dare you think to presume you know what my life has been like, what it is like.”

  He didn’t move and still showed no emotions.

  “But I do know you and your life, Holly.” His voice got harder, if possible, and he leaned forward once more, both arms on the table.