“Rip,” I repeat the word, popping the P.

  My husband’s face makes a funny expression, and I make the popping sound again.

  “Sav––”

  “Has anyone ever told you, you look like a lion?” Hands still on the bed, King hangs his head forward, his shoulders hunching, making him look even more like a big cat. “Your eyes,” I clarify, in case he’s frustrated about not understanding.

  His head lifts, those cat-like eyes boring into mine. “Where did you get that man’s t-shirt?”

  Oh, we’re back to this. “Target.”

  “You bought it?” He looks skeptical.

  I nod.

  “For yourself?”

  I nod again. “It’s soft.”

  “Why wouldn’t you buy women’s pajamas? I’m sure they have soft ones.”

  “Because…” Emotions crash into me out of nowhere, and my throat feels alarmingly tight. “Because I like to pretend it belongs to someone else.”

  Why am I admitting this? I shouldn’t be admitting this.

  “Why?”

  I hold the blanket tighter, bringing it higher, so it’s covering half my mouth. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. Answer the question.”

  I keep the blanket where it is. “Because it makes me feel like I have someone.”

  His jaw works, before he pulls back, stretching up and up until he’s standing straight. “What about Dip Shit?”

  “Who?” My eyes are locked on his chest muscles.

  Chest. That sounds like a fake word.

  “Leland.”

  “Hmm? What about him?” I visually trace the pattern of his body hair as it goes down, and down, disappearing beneath the band of shiny blue boxers.

  “Didn’t you have any of his clothes?”

  “Have his clothes?” I shake my head against the pillow. “Why would I have his clothes?”

  “Jesus Christ,” King mutters, and I finally bring my gaze back up to his. He points a finger to the closet. “If I go in there, and dig through your shit, am I going to find any of Leland’s clothes?”

  I scrunch my nose, earlier sad emotions already forgotten. “That would be weird.”

  “Why… You know what, never mind.” King heaves out a breath and I feel bad for making him upset.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about, Savannah?” he asks, resigned.

  “Um, for…” I try to remember. “Making you mad?” I finish as a question.

  “Alright, Honey.” King flips off his bedside lamp and in the following darkness, I feel his movements through the mattress.

  Quiet follows, and I wait somewhere between a moment and forever before scooting over to his side of the bed.

  Part of me knows it’s always been me, that I’m the one who moves every night, forcing him into cuddling with me. But I like it.

  I shouldn’t.

  Not with him.

  But I do.

  My nose bumps into his shoulder, and, without prompting, King lifts his arm.

  With a satisfied exhale, I press my cheek against my favorite spot on his chest.

  CHAPTER 34

  King

  Fuck. Me.

  Savannah tucks one of her little hands between herself and my side, but the other one splays across my chest, her fingers idly playing with the hair there.

  I don’t know what’s worse, the sexual frustration or the regular frustration of trying to have a conversation with an intoxicated person.

  Her hand slides lower, her fingertips tracing the outline of my abs, and I’m reminded of the outline of her nipples in that damn t-shirt.

  The memory of those fat titties hanging free makes my cock pulse.

  The hand resting on her side flexes but I leave it where it is. Even though I’m tempted to tug up the hem of her oversized shirt, because I’m pretty sure she’s wearing nothing but a pair of panties under there.

  Savannah slides her hand on my stomach lower, like she’s aiming for my goddamn dick.

  “Baby, if you don’t stop that right now, I’m going to fuck you. High or not. And then you’ll really hate me.”

  Her hand stills but doesn’t pull away.

  “I already hate you.” Her words are a murmur and I have to smile.

  “No, you don’t.”

  She’s silent for a second, and I think she’s fallen asleep, until she says, “I want to touch it.”

  My body jumps to full attention.

  “Touch what, Savannah.”

  “Your…” her fingers inch lower, “thing.”

  Thing.

  That word should make my thing shrivel up, but it just gets harder.

  “Can I?”

  Instead of answering her whispered question, I reach down and grip her wrist. To push her away.

  My hand lowers hers.

  Not stopping until her warm little palm settles over my hard length. Searing me through the silk.

  “It’s so big.” Her voice sounds awed, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut, because I’m nearly ready to blow.

  I don’t reply. Because what possible reply could I have?

  My cock is straining against her hand, and when her fingers try to wrap around my girth, I let out a groan.

  With her grip still mostly around me, she pulls her hand up to the head, and I break out into a fucking sweat.

  “It’s so long,” her lips are practically touching my nipple and I’ve never had a woman suck on my nipples before, but I’m wondering if I should ask her to.

  Then, slowly, so motherfucking slowly, she slides her hand down to the base. When she reaches the root, her fingers loosen, and she settles her hand on top of my balls.

  And then her breathing evens out. And she stops moving.

  Because she just passed out. Cradling my nut sack.

  This is my penance for every bad thing I’ve ever done.

  “Fuck me.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Savannah

  Sunlight penetrates through my eyelids, and I force my putty-like muscles to roll over. Blessedly, the blinding lights dim with the motion, and I fall back asleep.

  I step off the ledge of a firepit…and jerk awake.

  “Shit,” I groan, flopping onto my back.

  I need to pee so bad my stomach aches.

  Making myself get out of bed, I feel the aches of being a thirty-something who slept too long as I go through the process of getting ready for the day.

  Note to self, only hang out with those three when I want to be blitzed for the rest of the night.

  It’s when I’m in the closet, tugging on a pair of leggings under my big sleep shirt, that I start to remember all the details.

  King giving me a piggyback.

  King acting all snappy when he thought I was wearing another man’s shirt.

  King’s…oh god, did I touch his dick after calling it a thing?

  Still standing in the closet, I drop my forehead against the doorframe.

  Nicely done, Savannah.

  I should probably go apologize to him. And I should definitely shower since I spent half of last night laying in the grass, soaking up the campfire smell. But first, I need coffee.

  So, I’ll head to the kitchen first, to wake myself up, then I’ll find my way back to King’s office.

  It’s not until I’m walking down the hallway that I realize how easily I’ve forgotten about the whole kidnapping thing.

  There’s a part of me that can’t stop wondering how bad King really is. He says he’s bad. Told me he helps run some criminal organization. Whatever that means. And I know he killed Lee. But Lee, sorry, Leland, was also bad. So, does that make what King did less bad? Though King did basically threaten everyone I’ve ever known. Except…he never actually did threaten them, did he? He just showed me photos, which is fucked up and creepy. But he never specifically said if you don’t marry me, I’ll kill your cousin. Because I’m sort of doubting that he would.

  He did make me give up my house, but in exchange I’m now living in a mansion with the most glorious art studio I’ve ever seen.

  So, basically, I’m fucked. Because I’m starting to like my husband.

  A yawn comes on so hard I have to stop walking. And while I’m stopped, I hear the approaching steps down below.

  I’m near the top of the main stairs, but happened to stop just short of the end of the hallway. So, I’m hidden behind the edge of the wall.

  It was unintentional, and I’m opening my mouth to call out to King, assuming it’s him, when his voice bounces up the stairs.

  “What?” King’s voice sound’s annoyed as his footsteps come to a halt. “I thought the shipment of girls wasn’t supposed to come in until next week?”

  Girls?

  What does he mean girls?

  King’s quiet, and I picture him pressing his phone to his ear.

  My breaths start coming faster, and I press a hand over my mouth.

  “Do we have the men ready?”

  I’m a bad man. Who does bad things.

  That’s what he said. Bad. Things.

  I take a few steps back, the blood rushing through my ears is too loud. Like he’ll be able to hear it.

  He couldn’t. Could he?

  Have I really been so blinded by what I wanted to see?

  Panic, true panic, starts to build in my chest.

  Why am I having such a hard time believing this?

  He told me he was bad!

  Shame fills me.

  Shame at being so goddamn stupid.

  “No, I’ll be there for the tradeoff.” His voice is louder now, closer.

  Slamming my lips shut, holding my breath, I listen. And my heart stops when I hear his shoes on the stairs.

  As quietly as I possibly can, I spin around and sprint to the bedroom. His next words are unintelligible underneath my alarm, but I make it inside the room just before his voice echoes down the hall.

  Skidding to a stop, I push the door so it’s mostly closed then stand, stuck in indecision. Fake being asleep or hide in the bathroom?

  Since I’m basically hyperventilating, I run to the bathroom, doing the same thing with the main door before throwing myself into the little toilet stall at the far end of the room.

  I depress the handle as I close the door so the click is nearly inaudible, just as I hear King call out my name in the bedroom.

  I reach back and depress the handle, flushing the toilet, and use the sound to mask the soft click of me turning the tiny lock on the door handle.

  “Savannah?” King’s voice is in the bathroom now, and I once again realize that I acted in haste. Because flushing the toilet would usually suggest that I was done and that I would be coming out. But my cheeks are hot, my heart is still flipping around like it’s dying, and there’s no way I can look him in the eye without vomiting all over the floor.

  Shipment of girls.

  “I’m busy!” My voice sounds strained, so that, matched with the early flush, he probably thinks I’m in here taking a poop.

  Whatever. That’s fine. Everyone poops. Murderers and kidnap victims alike.

  “You alright?” I see a shadow move under the door and I know he’s standing just on the other side.

  I gingerly step back and sit down on the toilet seat, just in case he’ll be able to tell if I was standing from how my voice sounded.

  “Fine.” Act how you normally would, Savannah. I aim for an annoyed tone. “Do you mind? A little privacy, please.”

  It sounds like he’s tapping his foot before he sighs. “I’m heading out to do some work. I don’t know how late I’ll be, so let Cici make you dinner if I’m not back by…” he pauses to think, “eight.”

  “Oh, okay.” I bite my lip, then decide to go for it. “Any chance I can have my phone back?”

  “No.”

  I knew it was a long shot but I’m still angry with his answer. “I need to post on my socials. My business is very customer facing.” I have to stop myself from patting my own back at that last minute idea.

  “Nice try, Honey. I saw you posted last week letting everyone know you’d be absent while you work on your next series.”

  Damn me and my desire to communicate.

  “Can I have it anyway?” I’m really gonna need a phone if I want to run away.

  “No.”

  Though the more I think about it, he could probably track it in a heartbeat. “Fine. Now will you go away, so I can…finish?”

  I can hear him snort through the door. “Everyone shits, Savannah.”

  “Oh my god, get out!” My irritation isn’t faked, as I shout at him. And finally, finally, I listen to his footsteps as they leave.

  CHAPTER 36

  Savannah

  I waited for nearly an hour before I came out of that toilet stall. And then I took another hour with the main bathroom door locked, to shower and get ready. Then, only when I was as certain as I could be that the coast was clear, did I make my move.

  When we’d cleared out my house, I picked my bedroom to pack up for two reasons. One, because I didn’t need King pawing through my underwear. And two, because I had a stash of cash hidden in my closet, along with my spare key fob for my minivan. A minivan that now happens to be parked in King’s garage.

  One of my thin hoodies has zippered pockets, so I hid the money and key in those pockets and hung it up with the rest of my clothes, hoping the hide in plain sight trick would work. And as I shove my arms through the sleeves, I applaud myself for doing at least one thing right.

  I can’t walk out of here with a bag slung over my shoulder, so I have to be clever about how I dress. Because what I wear out of this house will be the sum of all I own in the world. Which means layers. I’ll overheat in ten seconds flat, but I only need to get off the property, then I can start to strip down.

  I have on two pairs of socks inside my tennis shoes. Undies of course, leggings, and then a pair of baggy sweats over that. Day wear and pajamas. Then I have on a comfortable wireless bralette––that I won’t mind wearing every day––and stuffed between my boobs are three more pairs of underwear. Over that is a tank top, then a t-shirt, and a cardigan that you can’t see once I put on my hoodie.

  I look pudgy on my own, so with all these layers I look like I’ve tacked on 20 pounds overnight, but hopefully no one will be looking that closely. And I need the seven hundred dollars I squirreled away to stretch, so I can’t be using it to buy clothes.

  Hopefully, not too long from now, I can get my hands on a phone, or find a library with email. Then I can send a message to Mandi to have her sell the handful of paintings that I’ve kept in her warehouse and wire me the cash.

  Feeling as confident as I possibly can, I let the key fob dangle from my fingers and I walk, shoulders back, all the way through the house, down the stairs, and into the garage.

  Act like you belong.

  Act like nothing is wrong.

  I slap my hand against the far button on the wall, hoping it’s for the door at the far end of the garage where my van is parked, and nearly shout with joy as the right overhead garage door rumbles open.

  Act normal.

  Eyes forward, I make my way across the garage, and click the fob to unlock my van doors.

  As I climb in, I see that everything is still how I left it. My reusable, and paint-stained, water bottle in one cupholder, random trash in the other, a variety of painting supplies tucked into pockets in the back seat, and my sunglasses clipped to the visor.

  Movement up ahead draws my attention, and I force my hand up to wave at the man walking across the driveway with his head turned in my direction.

  Not waiting for him to think twice, I slip my sunglasses on, start the van, then pull forward.

  Someone else can shut the garage door.

  The man nods a greeting as I pass, then continues on his way.

  Am I actually going to make it?

  I drive down the long ass driveway and no alarms sound, no guns are raised.

  I think I’m gonna make it.

  Then the driveway crests and I see two men standing at the closed gate, guarding the way on, and off, the property.

  Normal. Normal. Normal.

  Inside, I’m freaking out, but the sunglasses help to obscure the terror in my eyes as I slow to a stop a few feet from the gate.

  A man I don’t recognize circles around to my window, so, with shaky hands, I press the control to lower it.

  I don’t wait for him to speak. “Hey there! I’m just headed out to pick up some paintings.” I smile and use a thumb to point to the empty back of the van. The missing seats making it the perfect vehicle for transporting large canvases.

  The man inclines his head. “For the Mrs., right? Heard she was an artist.”

  Heard she was…

  This man doesn’t know it’s me. Doesn’t know that I’m the Mrs.

  “Yep!” My octave hits an all new high, but he just grins.

  “Well, hurry back. I heard there’s gonna be some thunderstorms later tonight. You won’t want to be driving in that.”

  I don’t have to fake my grimace. “Yeah, sure don’t.”

  Then the man, my new favorite person, taps the hood of the car twice and gestures to the other man still stationed by the gate.

  “See ya!” I call out, as I roll up my window and pull out of the driveway, careful not to stomp on the gas and give myself away.

  Stress sweat is already soaking through my many layers of clothes, but I made it.

  I fucking made it!

  CHAPTER 37

  King

  Nero taps his fingers on my dashboard.

  “Do that again and I’m cutting them off,” I snap.

  His fingers still in their tapping, and his head slowly turns to face me. “You want to talk about it?”

  My brows furrow. “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever’s crawled up your ass.” Nero lifts his hands when I glare at him. “Fine, keep being a wound-up dickhead. But I didn’t make you come out tonight.”