Her?
He didn’t know.
He just knew, mixed with the carnal scent still rising from the damp spot he’d seen in her panties moments earlier, it was as dangerous as hell.
“I have every intention of returning you to dear old ‘Prince Ali’. Preferably without any extra… gifts added to the ones he’s already given you.” His eyes traveled in the direction of the scar he’d just seen on her leg, and when he brought his gaze back to hers, a gleam of hatred had flashed across her orbs. He couldn’t tell if that hateful gleam was in response to the memory of how that scar had found its way onto her body, or tailor made just for him. He didn’t care. “I don’t wanna hurt you.” He searched her eyes. “But if you push me, I will.”
Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and her breasts, whose seductive beauty he wouldn’t soon forget, heaved under the thick fabric of his sweatshirt.
He felt his own breath quickening in time with hers, forcing himself to push away from the bed and leave the room, his boots stomping across the floors in his retreat.
——
Bound once more, Mia gritted her teeth as she watched the animal stomp out of the room, unable to stop her heated eyes from traveling down the long, strong lines of his broad back and muscular arms as he went. Long, deep lines that had entranced her and taken her hostage from the moment he’d torn that sweatshirt off his massive body, reveling in the strength she’d always known he’d been harboring underneath, but still hadn’t been prepared for. The rippling six pack abs. The massive boulders, ebbing and pulsing under every inch of his skin. The deep V at his hips.
A deep V that had led the way to what she had been prepared for. To the raging hard-on that had taken up residence against his zipper. So long and thick between his jeans and his thigh she’d worried it might battle ram its way right through the denim. It was a sight she’d known she’d eventually find herself on the receiving end of, no matter how savage and heartless he was.
All men were exactly the same really, and his carnal response to her naked body was just the swipe of the match she needed to get her freedom flame burning once more. Assuring her that all hope was not lost after all. She’d now seen it with her own two eyes. Just how badly that barbarian really wanted her. It was only a matter of time before she broke him.
She looked to her right, where she’d hidden the sequin she’d ripped away from her dress in the bathroom earlier that night. The sequin that hadn’t left her fisted hand during her entire escape attempt. The sequin that had remained in her hand long after that scowling menace had carried her back into that bedroom and thrown her down onto the bed. The sequin she’d hidden next to the pillows while she’d still been lying on her stomach.
As she looked upon that sequin with rivets sharp enough to draw blood—fatal blood if she chose—she thought of his swollen cock. It was only a matter of time before he couldn’t fight her anymore. Before he finally gave in to the erotic urges tearing him limb from limb.
He’d give in.
And when he did, she’d be ready.
13
Standing behind his gleaming black desk at his opulent offices in central London, Malik Ali clenched his teeth, causing the sharp muscles of his chiseled jaw to jut out of his skin. Beyond the spotless towering windows behind him, London’s most iconic attractions—the Big Ben clock tower, the London Eye and the Palace of Westminster—greeted the office from hundreds of feet below. The River Thames radiated under the bright lights of the city as well as the stars winking from the sky.
Malik’s brown eyes, however, were far from twinkling as they narrowed to the opposite side of his desk, where his personal assistant and the head of his security team looked upon him with grim faces, hands locked in front of their suit clad bodies.
“All I’m asking is for someone. To find. My wife.” Malik spoke calmly, but his clipped tone hinted that a real explosion was underway in his deepest depths. “And you’re telling me no police? They’d have had roadblocks set up in every corner of the city hours ago while you stand before me doing nothing. Whoever’s taken her is outside city limits by now, no question. Doing God only knows—” He pressed his eyes closed when his voice broke, gnawing his bottom lip.
“The poll numbers are too tight, Malik.” Hakeem, the head of Malik’s security—also British Pakistani, responded. His two best employees stood behind him. Two mountain-sized men who never spoke but were always armed and ready to shoot. “You’ve managed to maintain a scandal-free four-year term, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got the wiggle room to become reckless now. One bad scandal could tip the scales.”
“One scandal will tip the scales,” Malik’s assistant, Niall, a stout Irishman with a balding head and big blue eyes, jumped in from where he stood beside Hakeem. “And tip them badly.”
Malik drew in a deep breath and turned away from them both, looking down at the view that would usually calm his racing heart but only made it race faster right then.
“That’s why the miserable bastard took her when he did.” Malik swung on his heel and faced them once more. “He knew what he was doing.”
“We’ll find her, Malik,” Hakeem responded. “We’ll find her and keep it quiet—”
The desk phone rang before Hakeem could finish. Every soul in the room held their breath. It was the first time that phone had rung since Malik had called for radio silence, shortly after Mia had disappeared from the pavilion earlier than evening. Malik snatched it up in the middle of the first ring while snapping his finger at Hakeem, silently demanding he trace the call with the software they’d set up hours earlier.
Hakeem was two steps ahead, already tapping away at the laptop sitting on the edge of the desk. The laptop that the phone was plugged into. He gave Malik a thumbs up, ready to trace the call.
Malik clapped the phone to his ear, eyes trained forward and bulging when he was met with silence on the other line.
Niall leaned into the desk, his own eyes wide as they searched Malik’s face.
Clearly aware they were tracing the call, the deep voice on the other the line got right to the point. “If you want your trophy wife back you’ll do exactly as I say.”
“Keep him on the phone,” Hakeem mouthed, circling his pointer finger through the air since hadn’t yet triangulated the call.
Malik swallowed thickly when his voice trembled. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“You want you trophy wife. I want the blonde girl locked on the top floor.”
The color drained from Malik’s face. His lips falling open. Hakeem and Niall both went white as well, sharing grim looks. The assassins still lingering quietly at the back of the office had no reaction. No surprise from two people who were basically dead inside.
Malik took a deep breath. “I want proof of life.”
As if the man on the other end of the line had been waiting for that demand, Malik’s phone beeped, indicating he’d just received a text. He snatched the phone away from his ear and was met with a picture message. A photo of Mia with her hands and feet bound to the black bars of a bed, wearing a gray sweatshirt and nothing else, black mascara staining her eyes and cheeks, big brown eyes looking directly at the camera.
Malik nearly crushed the phone in his hand. He nearly threw it across the room. It took every inch of willpower he had to clap the phone back to his ear, his chest heaving.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Malik spat.
“Emma for Mia.” The deep voice rang in. “Tomorrow night. An hour before the trade, I’ll send the address.”
“Keep him on the phone,” Hakeem mouthed once more.
But the line clicked before he could finish tracing the call.
This time, Malik reared back and heaved the phone at the wall—screaming from the deepest pit of his stomach as it crashed into the bookshelf on the far wall.
Malik hissed, an infuriated smile staining his lips as the phone clattered to the floor. “He knows the public loves her more than they’ll eve
r love me. That I won’t make her abduction public and risk souring my image so close to the election…” With a deep breath that burned his chest, Malik’s eyes left the destroyed phone and locked onto Hakeem. “Find my wife. Kill him, and bring her back to me.”
Hakeem gave a sharp nod and stood, swiveling on his heels, snapping for his goons to follow as he breezed out of the office. Hakeem had many more goons with guns beyond that door—all standing in wait, ready for war as soon as Hakeem gave word.
“Find my wife.” Malik’s face churned red, unable to stop his voice from wobbling and then rising, even as Hakeem and his soldiers heeded his command and charged out of the room. “Find my wife!”
14
Linc stared down at the phone long after he’d hung up, still reveling in the memory of Malik’s voice. The way it had wobbled throughout the conversation. The way fear had eaten it alive. He hoped the fear Malik felt for Mia’s safety was even half as poignant as the fear he felt every second for Emma.
Leaning on the railing of the balcony, built off the master bedroom of the two-story cottage and overlooking the vast forest and sprawling hills of the luscious land on the outskirts of London, Linc studied the photo of Mia on the screen. The photo of her bound, in the bedroom, just across the hall. She looked downright terrified. Malik’s heart must’ve had hit his feet. The desperation to save his beautiful, delicate wife must’ve been incredible. Strong enough to bring him to his knees.
He chortled. If only Malik knew how misleading that photo was. If only he knew Mia had been spitting fire and talking back and fighting like a wild animal locked in a cage since the moment Linc had taken her. If only Malik knew that, even though she’d been kidnapped and tied up by a raging madman, she’d barely shed a single tear. That, when she’d risked her life to escape him by diving headfirst into a laundry chute—a stroke of genius driving her to free her limbs using the saw in the basement—and made a run for it through the forest, she hadn’t once screamed for help.
No.
Mia Ali was no delicate flower. Regardless of the evidence her beautiful packaging gave to the contrary. She was a fighter. If the struggle she’d been giving Linc since the moment he’d thrown her over her shoulder wasn’t indication enough, the scar he’d seen on the side of her body earlier that evening surely was. A scar that proved she’d fought many battles in her time with Malik. A scar that, upon seeing it for the first time, had instantly reminded him of the scars he’d seen on his own wife’s body, nearly a year earlier, when he’d gone to the morgue to identify her.
He sucked in a breath, stomach falling to his feet, and clicked out of the photo. He went into the pocket of his jeans with his free hand and fished out a bronze coin, holding it up in the night air. It gleamed under the moonlight. The number ‘1’ that had been emblazoned in the middle of the coin warmed his fiery heart in an instant, the way it always did.
He went back to the phone a moment later, navigating to the throwaway Instagram account he’d created months ago. An account he hadn’t been able to stop himself from visiting. He breathed in deep at the photos that met him on his old friend Veda Vandyke’s Instagram feed. Photos of his mother, with her wild blonde hair and drawn brown eyes, cuddling a newborn baby against her chest while smiling up at the camera. Photos of Veda with that same baby, showcasing his growth with eyes full of pride and comments beside the photos that were long-winded in a way only a proud mother could manage. Photos of Gage, of the brother he’d barely knew, playing with that baby too.
Unable to stop himself—he never could whenever he made the colossal mistake of opening that app—Linc clicked out of Instagram and dialed a number he knew by heart.
A number he’d always known by heart.
It rang three times.
“Hello?” Veda’s sleepy voice had come through the line, sounding almost… desperate.
Linc held his breath at the sound of her voice, slamming his eyes closed when they instantly started to burn, leaving them that way until he was sure the moisture that had been trying to build up there had ebbed away. It was much the same reaction he had whenever he made the mistake of calling his mother. Something about their voices hurt too badly. Felt too much like home. A home he could never return to.
He didn’t respond to Veda’s whispered voice.
He never did.
“Is that you?” she whispered into the phone. When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “I know it’s you.”
He ran a hand down his face, knowing his cheeks were red from how hot they felt under his fingers. His palm rested over his lips, willing himself to keep quiet even though his body desperately wanted to respond.
“It’s been over a month since you…” She took a deep breath as if chiding herself, knowing these calls had the potential to be short and getting straight to the point. “It happened. I’m actually someone’s mom… Six weeks old. Can you believe it? God help him, right?”
A soft smile lifted the corners of his lips. A phenomenon he’d been convinced he’d forgotten how to do.
“You ready for this?” Her voice grew playful. “We named him Lincoln.”
His shoulders dropped and so did his head, chin hitting his chest, suddenly feeling weak, like he needed to sit down. Like his knees were going to give out from under him any moment. He sucked in a breath when his stomach fluttered.
“Lincoln Blackwater.” She paused as if hoping that maybe, this time, he’d respond, even though they both knew he wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about the Blackwater part, but… hopefully, we did you proud with Lincoln.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
And he smiled back as if she could see him.
“I swear that he changes ethnicities everyday. Everyday, he looks like someone else’s kid. When I gave birth to him, he was Chinese. When we brought him home, he was Greek. Now, looking at him, I’m honestly getting Dominican vibes. He’s all over the map, man…He’s wearing a onesie that Grace bought for him. It has a Straight Outta Compton logo on the front, but instead, it says Straight Outta Mommy.” She chortled. “Your mom’s awesome. She even took him off our hands all day today so we could have some alone time. He really loves her.”
This time, Linc was unable to fight the moisture that stung his eyes but managed to will up the strength to stop it from rolling down his cheeks, clenching his teeth to the point of shattering to do it.
“I’m not quite Veda Blackwater yet, but… getting there. We were thinking… destination wedding. Somewhere far away. With no extradition.”
He breathed deep at the unspoken invitation.
“Things have quieted down a lot around here. No Blackwater Cruises. Murder rates at an all time low. Fewer missing person cases. The bureau’s investigation is still going strong, so the island’s crawling with feds. Not exactly an appealing place to run a trafficking operation, so it’s all just… gone to dust. I’d almost use the word… nice. It’s like a whole different world.” She chuckled, her eyes softening into the crib. “I’m actually excited to raise my son here. And that’s down to his uncle. It’s all because of you—”
His head fell once more, eyes slamming shut.
“I’m really glad you called. I was beginning to worry that… that you’d stopped needing this. Stopped needing it as much as I do. As much as we do. Wherever you are… We love you. We miss you—”
“I want to talk to him.”
At the sound of Gage’s voice—of his brother’s voice—Linc ended the call. Not because he’d wanted to. Not even because he’d let the call go on past the two-minute limit he’d set for himself.
But because his heart couldn’t take anymore.
15
Wisps of the rising sun wafted into the kitchen just as Linc finished filling a white plate full of colorful, bite-sized foods. Baby carrots, cherry tomatoes, celery, and thin slices of pita bread surrounded the plate with a small bowl of hummus in the middle. He seized the plate from the countert
op, the slick porcelain nearly slipping from his grip when he grabbed the glass of water sitting next to it as well. With his free hand, he snatched the yellow stuffed bear he’d carried downstairs with him off the counter as well, before making his way out of the kitchen.
The sing-song chirp of birds in the woodland outside followed him all the way up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the only room in the house that didn’t have a window. He hesitated in the doorway, looking upon Mia’s sleeping face. Her ankles and wrists were still bound to the bed, making for what was surely an uncomfortable sleep, but with her head cocked against the arm she had locked over her head, using the crook in her shoulder as a pillow, cheek smashed, Linc couldn’t deny that she looked pretty damned comfortable. Knocked the hell out, in fact, with dried mascara caking her eyes and lips heavily puckered.
He made his way across the room and deposited the plate, the water, and the yellow stuffed bear onto the bedside table before pulling the folding chair to the edge of the bed. As he sat, his eyes narrowed to Mia’s gold dress, still pooled on the floor. Something moved him out of the chair and toward the dress.
When he bent down and picked it up, her perfume wafted off the fabric, invading his nostrils with a scent he’d already associated with her. A scent that already felt familiar. A scent that—if he ever smelled it again in his lifetime—would immediately rocket him back to that house. That minute. That second.
He was snapped away from the maddening aroma, however, when a folded piece of white paper came tumbling out of the long gown and landed on the floor. He cringed before lifting the gown up high, studying the slinky fabric, wondering where the hell she’d managed to hide a piece of paper in that tight ass dress all night. With a shrug, he slung the dress over the footboard of the bed, next to Mia’s feet—still twitching in her sleep—before bending down to seize the paper.
When he unfolded it, his heart ground to a halt.
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