“Because acting dumb is basically the number one rule of being kidnapped. And you just told me that you know my name. Why would I ever let you go now?”

  “Oh.” I push my hands down further between my thighs, hunching my shoulders. “But you know my name.”

  “Yeah.” The way he says the word sounds like duh. “But I’m the one doing the kidnapping. I’m supposed to know things about you.”

  “But you already know that I know who you are. Because we met this afternoon,” I point out dumbly.

  I watch him shake his head. “Do you want me to kill your friend, too?”

  “What!?” My hands fly up, palms out in a stop motion. “No!”

  “Then maybe talking about that connection is a bad idea.”

  “Well, I’m freaking sorry,” I wave my hands around. “I’ve never been kidnapped before!”

  “No shit.”

  “Gee, my apologies for being a bad captive,” I snap. “If I’d have known––”

  The rest of my words go unheard as King presses a button on his steering wheel, and the car is suddenly filled with loud rock music.

  “Great. Fine,” I mutter to myself, crossing my arms and turning my head away from him. “Perfect victim coming right up.”

  Traffic thins, as we head west, going further and further away from downtown.

  I grew up in what was considered a richer suburb, east of the cities, by the Wisconsin border. My parents were very insular, particular about who they spent time with, so I didn’t often get to leave their little bubble of lawyers and house parties. Certainly not to the opposite side of the Twin Cities.

  And then, to my parents’ horror, I went to an art school in the heart of Minneapolis, rather than following their prestigious law school dreams. Meaning, I suddenly became broke––living off student loans and shitty, part-time, on-campus jobs, without a car to my name. To be fair, they warned me they’d cut me off if I choose art over law. And they stuck true to their word.

  So, even though I’ve spent my whole life not far from where we are right now, I’m not familiar with any of it.

  Sure, I have a car now, and a little house––thank you grandma for that inheritance–– but I guess I’ve unwittingly repeated my parent’s behavior, only interacting with other people in my art world. Only moving between my home and my studio and the galleries I show at.

  Do better, Savannah.

  A full fifteen minutes have gone by since the last time I spoke, and I find my mouth opening when we round a corner and are confronted with the sight of a lake. A big lake.

  The moonlight shimmers across the still surface and it feels like he’s driven to a whole new world.

  I’m used to seeing the Mississippi River, since it slices through the heart of Minneapolis, but that’s fast-moving, loud, almost violent at times. This is…something else entirely. And if I had red slippers on, I’d click my heels together. Because we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  CHAPTER 8

  King

  My little captive sat still in her seat, finally acting how she should, until a few moments ago. Now she’s sitting forward, watching raptly, as I take the final few turns to my property.

  This isn’t the only home I own, but it is the one I live in. And I have zero fucking idea why I thought bringing her here would be a good idea.

  Because it’s the worst idea.

  Quite literally bringing her anywhere else would’ve been a better idea.

  But it’s been a long day. And I wanted to go home, and I wasn’t going to let some woman, with unfortunate timing and unfortunate taste in men, ruin the rest of my evening.

  I follow the curve of the road, until my headlights illuminate the heavy iron gate standing tall at the end of my driveway, then I slow.

  I saw how Savannah stared at the lake when I turned us away from it. And I’m sure people would think that a rich asshole, like myself, would live directly on the water. But I don’t. Because I don’t want any uncontrolled points of entry on my property. And a lake filled with drunk idiots on boats, and yuppies on paddleboards, isn’t exactly what I consider locked down tight. So instead, I have ten acres of land a mile inland. All of it fenced. And all of it watched by a team of security guards.

  I see movement behind the gate, but rather than waiting for my men to confirm my identity, I tap my remote and the gates slide open.

  Savannah’s hands, which had been fidgeting in her lap, get shoved back between her thighs. Her thick, jiggly thighs that I want to take a fucking nap on.

  My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

  I can’t be thinking about her like that. This woman is my captive, for however long it takes me to figure out what to do with her. And in order to figure out what to do with her, I need to learn more about her. And I can’t do that with her screaming in my ear, or running away from me, or trying to fling herself from my moving vehicle.

  Which leaves me with limited options.

  Literally limited to locking her up inside, while I think.

  She leans forward, and I watch her look through the side mirror at the gates sliding back closed behind us.

  “I have twenty men guarding the perimeter.” There are four men. “If you try to run for the gate, or the fence, they will shoot you.” They won’t. “So, on the off chance you find yourself at an unlocked door, don’t bother going through it.” They’ll all be locked.

  The house looms ahead of us, with the windows ablaze, making it appear full of life.

  Of course, it’s not. The staff would’ve all retired to their residence by now, a smaller house at the back of my property, but I like to leave some lights burning, giving off that feeling of a warm welcome when I come home. Even if it’s just a façade.

  Sorta like wearing these suits. No one enjoys wearing a fucking suit. No one with biceps at least. But I wear it because it makes me look respectable. Civilized.

  I’m sure Aspen would have fucking field day picking through the psychology behind my decisions. But therapy is a luxury of the innocent. And I have far too many skeletons in my closet, propping my baggage upright. So, fucked up, unfulfilled and secretly sad is how I’ll live until the day the Grim Reaper finally steps away from my side and faces me.

  I slow to a stop at the base of the steps leading up to the front door.

  My house is stupidly big. Way more space than one person needs. More space than a family of ten would need. But a house this size is what’s expected of me. And it’s easier to hide things in. So, it’s what I built. And money might not be able to buy happiness, but it can buy the best architects. And I hired the best to build me an oversized English Tudor-style mansion. And it looks perfect here, nestled in the manicured lawns, while the rest of the property is covered in privacy-giving trees.

  I shift into park and turn off the engine. “Traditionally, this is the part when you undo your seatbelt.”

  Savannah looks at me. “Why did you bring me here?”

  My head tips back against the headrest. “I couldn’t just leave you there. You have to understand that.” I’m not surprised when she doesn’t reply. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it went down like this. But after what happened this afternoon…” I can’t keep the judgment out of my tone. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting you to show up. Usually when someone finds out their boyfriend is a cheating scumbag, it kinda kills the romance.”

  Savannah straightens her spine, but she still doesn’t turn away from the window. “He wasn’t…” She shakes her head. “I went there to get my car keys.”

  I think about her purse that I tossed into the back and wonder if I’ll find out she’s lying or telling the truth.

  “Is––” She stops, and with the house lights framing her profile, I watch her press her trembling lips together before trying again. “Is there anything I can say, or promise, that will make you let me go?”

  I give her the courtesy of pausing, as I think about her question. But I don’t know her. I don’t know if I can trust her word. I don’t know who she knows. I don’t know what her family is like, or if she has people that would try to hide her from me. And it’s not like something as trivial as an NDA would do a damn thing to stop her from reporting a murder.

  I’m fairly confident I could get away with it. Even if I opened the gates right now, handed her her purse and let her go, what would she do? She could call the police, tell them her boyfriend is dead and that she saw a man in his apartment. They’d go to the address, find a clean apartment––no body, nothing suspicious––and they’d leave.

  She could go to her friend’s house, the woman recovering from surgery, who is certainly on lots of pain medication, and ask her to corroborate that we met. But no one can place us together at the crime scene. It’d just be a he said, she said situation. Except my words would be backed by my upstanding citizen reputation, millions of dollars, and The Alliance.

  So I’m fairly confident. And yet…

  “No,” I tell her honestly. “There’s nothing you can say.”

  It doesn’t matter that she wouldn’t succeed in taking me down, she’s seen too much already. And if the right person gets ahold of her…

  I won’t let anyone use her against me. It’s as simple as that.

  Well, that’s step one. I still have to decide what to do with her.

  Accepting my decision, Savannah reaches down and unbuckles her seatbelt.

  Mirroring her movements, I climb out of the car, stopping briefly to open the back door and retrieve her purse.

  When I circle around the back of my Suburban, I find Savannah standing next to her open door, and take it as a win that she didn’t attempt to sprint to the fence.

  “Come on.” I step up next to her, reaching behind her to close the car door. “Let’s go inside.”

  My hand automatically rises to press against her lower back, but I stop. She might be my type, but she’s not here on a date.

  Then, I remember she’s my prisoner, and I can do whatever I want to her, so I continue the motion until my palm is pressed against her spine.

  She jumps a little, but doesn’t push me away. Another win.

  We’re nearly at the steps when a deep, ominous bark cuts through the night.

  I stop and curl my fingers into the back of Savannah’s shirt, stopping her with me.

  The low bark sounds like more of a growl this time and it’s closer.

  “What’s that?” Savannah takes a step closer, pressing her side against mine.

  I bite down on a smile.

  I don’t think she realizes that she moved to me for protection.

  “That’s my dog,” I tell her, as the all-black, one hundred and ten pound, Cane Corso lumbers toward us.

  “That’s not a dog, it’s a damn monster!” She tries to move behind me, but my grip on her shirt prevents her.

  I round my lips and let out a short whistle. Knowing his command, my big boy picks up the pace.

  “Hold!” I command, and he does as expected, letting out another loud growl.

  Savannah squeaks and presses further into me, meaning the command worked as desired.

  “Stand down.” He listens and the growls stop. Dark eyes flick between me and Savannah and I know he’s thinking what the fuck, man? You just told me to intimidate her in place and now you’re telling me to chill? Pick a lane. To which I nonverbally reply we need her to be scared of you because I’m keeping her against her will. He blinks. Like a pet? I blink. Well, now that you mention it…

  “Is he, or she, friendly?” Savannah’s question interrupts our conversation.

  The real answer is a little complicated, because he’s the best goddamn dog to ever walk this earth. And he’d never ever hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it. But he’s also trained to protect me and mine, so there are times that he’s decidedly unfriendly.

  “No,” I answer, and I can feel the canine outrage at my response. “He’s a highly trained security tool. He won’t attack without being provoked.” I silently beg his forgiveness as I say this next part. “But if he sees someone running, he will take them down. And dog teeth don’t feel great when they’re puncturing your thigh.”

  The huff of air that leaves the dog sounds like indignation, but Savannah must not translate it the same way because I feel her tremble against me.

  It’s the proper instinctual reaction to being growled at by a dog this size. And since she’s considerably smaller than me, the monster, as she calls him, stands around hip height.

  “Never had a dog, I take it?” I find myself curious.

  She shakes her head. “No. Well, my mom had this tiny little thing that would bite everyone and never left her side. Or lap.”

  I grimace. “Not the same.”

  Savannah tries to back up a step again. “Not the same.”

  I keep her at my side. “This one only bites when provoked.” Before the too smart canine can ruin the story I’m weaving, I lift my free hand, pointing down the driveway. “Gate.”

  I swear he rolls his eyes at me, before he turns from us and gallops toward the front gate. Following his command perfectly. I feel a little bad about sending him there for no reason, but I know the gate guards will give him attention. Once I have Savannah squared away, I’ll bring him in the house to apologize.

  Flattening my hand on Savannah’s back, I guide her up the steps, to the front door.

  We pause long enough for the small pad on the door handle to read my thumbprint, then I push it open, lightly pressing on Savannah’s back to make her go first.

  She tries to slow as we move through the grand foyer, but I don’t let her. Part of me feels the urge to give her a real tour, to show her around. But then I remember, once again, that she’s here against her will and I need to get her put away so I can think.

  But my brain is impatient, so it doesn’t stop swirling with possibilities. And as we climb the stairs, and I lead her down a hall, an idea forms.

  A crazy idea.

  An insane idea.

  The type of idea that would make even Nero think twice.

  But unhinged or not, it’s the best idea I have that keeps everyone safe.

  “This one,” I say as we approach a closed door. Savannah stops, and I’m happy to see her cheeks are dry and her expression, though weary, doesn’t look terrified anymore.

  I place my thumb on the small black square above the handle and wait for the door to click unlocked.

  She’ll find the same sort of lock on the doors leading out to the balcony, bulletproof glass filling the panes, and no way to reach the outside world. I’m confident this room will hold her.

  It might seem like a bunch of overkill, but as one of the two men who run one of the largest crime organizations in the central United States, overkill is necessary.

  And if we’re going for overkill…

  I push the door open and Savannah steps through.

  “What is…” Her voice trails off when she sees the oversized Alaska King bed situated with its headboard against the far wall.

  “This is our bedroom.”

  She whips around, her blonde hair flying out with the movement. “Our!? No, no, no.” She shakes her head. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  I keep my hand on the doorframe. “I’ll let you stay in here by yourself tonight, but starting tomorrow, you will be sleeping at my side.”

  Savannah slowly crosses her arms, putting a barrier between us. “Why? What’s happening tomorrow?”

  I grin. “We’re getting married.”

  Her mouth drops open.

  But before she can respond, I slam and lock the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Savannah

  No.

  Just. No.

  I stare at the door, slack jawed, waiting for him to swing it back open and say just kidding.

  But he doesn’t. Because I think that psycho was being serious.

  But…married?!

  My brain can’t even wrap around the thought.

  Why would he want that? How would that be useful to him at all?

  And why would I ever agree?

  I wouldn’t.

  I would never.

  I don’t even know him. I don’t even know his last name.

  I glance around the massive bedroom. And standing here, finally alone, it all hits me.

  I’ve been kidnapped.

  No one knows where I am. No one knows that I’m in danger.

  And I saw a man kill someone tonight.

  Well, technically, I didn’t see anything. I heard two male voices. I heard something pop. And then…

  Images of Lee’s dead body fill my vision.

  The blood.

  The hole in the head.

  The vacant eyes.

  Nausea washes through me.

  I didn’t even like him, not at all after today, but still…I’d seen those eyes up close and alive only hours before.

  My stomach lurches and I dart toward a darkened doorway, thankful it’s the bathroom.

  Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke.

  Some motion sensor turns on soft lighting nearby and it’s enough to guide me toward the little separate room in the far corner that houses the toilet.

  Stumbling, I catch my palms on the toilet seat, and squeeze my eyes shut as my body heaves.

  I hate puking.

  Tears stream from my closed eyes, as I cough and spit. My insides and emotions roiling in turn.

  Blindly, I reach for the lever and flush away the evidence of my weakness.

  My body sinks to the floor and I’m finally able to push my hair away from my face as I dry heave one more time.

  I don’t know if it’s the fear, the sickness, or the cold tile beneath me, but I’m suddenly freezing. Colder than I’ve ever been before.

  This isn’t happening.

  I hold my hair with one hand and spit once more, before flushing for a final time.

  This can’t be happening.

  I sit on the floor, forcing in a few deep breaths.