His for the Taking

by Samantha Madisen

  But all the drawers were empty. It was like this wasn’t a real house.

  I whirled around, scanning the windows—tinted, like the one in the first room I had been brought to.

  But with something that looked like a handle, or a crank.

  I ran to the window, not really sure what I thought I would do next if it opened. The crank wouldn’t budge. I hit it with my free hand and pulled at the same time.

  “Natalia.”

  His voice was low, calm as it had been when he had come to Kitty Bang Bang.

  Fuck.

  I froze.

  “What are you doing that for?” he said, and without turning around I sensed him moving toward me in the room. “Hmm? You’re not trying to escape again?”

  I let out a gasp of desperation. Jesus. Here came the tears again. I hit the crank again in frustration. “I just... I can’t just... I need to know where we are. I can’t... leave everything.”

  I sounded hysterical. Sweat was gathering on the back of my neck, and the tears were about to overflow.

  He was behind me in an instant, the heat of his body against me, lulling me into that false sense of safety. His arms, muscled and thicker than I remembered, slid around me, over my own puny forearms, and another blubbering gasp left me, as I realized how silly I was to think I could get away from him, overpower him, sneak away from him... maybe how little I actually wanted to...

  My eyelids grew heavy. I felt like a cat must when someone pets it.

  He put his hand on the crank, over mine, and then, like it was no more than flipping a switch, he moved it.

  The fogged glass of the window began to peel away from the wall, opening up and out. A screen obscured the scene slightly, but he rolled and rolled until I could see the late afternoon sun hanging over the mountains in the distance.

  We were close to home.

  My heart leaped.

  He turned his head, and I felt his lips and his breath against the side of my skull, through my hair, snaking down the outer edges on my ear, and my eyes fell shut as a shiver ran through me. “You have to come now, Natalia. We don’t have time to argue about this. I can tell you more when we get there. But now... please... please...” His breath was hot, and it felt like a string from my heart to my pussy was plucked and left to vibrate inside of me, driving me mad. “Please, just do as I tell you now.”

  He rolled the window shut.

  The heat of his body left me, and I turned slowly, still vibrating under his voodoo.

  I followed him.

  * * *

  The spell he had cast on me lasted through the corridors of the house, and up several stairways to the roof. But as soon as I saw the helicopter, it crashed apart like a broken window. If there was one thing I had an irrational fear of, it was helicopters.

  He had guided me to walk just in front of him, pushing me along gently by his fingertips at the small of my back, where they delivered an electric tingle that coursed right to my... well, I hadn’t forgotten what had happened before breakfast.

  But when I saw the helicopter, I stopped dead in my tracks. It wasn’t a conscious decision; my body simply froze and refused to listen to any signal from my brain. Which wouldn’t have been much, because my brain felt like it had hit a brick wall.

  He collided with me because of the sudden stop, and I was so stiff that we almost fell down together.

  “Natal—”

  “No way,” I heard myself saying. “No, no, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t...” I shook my head and closed my eyes and waved my hands around.

  Apparently, getting kidnapped by a serial killer psycho who spanked me, gave me wild orgasms, and Stockholm-syndromed me was okay. But helicopters—which I had never been in—made me... faint.

  Because next thing I knew, I was inside it.

  It took a few seconds to figure that out. I was groggy, like I’d woken up from a long nap. There was no motion, just the interior of a vehicle—leather seats, a window, a loud, slowing noise. Like when you roll the window down... I blinked and sat up, and it all came back to me.

  I looked down. I was fastened into a seat by a complicated belt I could not understand how to remove. I started to wriggle, look around.

  “Calm down,” a voice said behind me.

  His voice.

  I turned to the right and saw the cockpit of the dreaded helicopter, and panic seized me again. “I can’t,” I was barely able to say.

  I had never been in a helicopter, so I didn’t know why the hell I was so freaked out by them. I could barely watch them on TV ever since I was a kid. My adoptive parents would always try to edit them out, switching the channel or turning off the TV because I got so upset.

  I started to kick and scream. This was not what I wanted to do, it was just... what I did. No fucking way I was going in a helicopter. “I can’t,” I tried to say, but I was already hyperventilating.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he was saying. I felt his arm on mine. “Natalia, Natalia, it’s okay. We’re here. We’re already here—”

  “I won’t do it!” I shrieked. “I can’t... I can’t.”

  He was next to me then. “Breathe, Natalia, breathe. You have to take a slow deep breath. You aren’t flying anywhere. You’re getting out. Okay? Breathe.”

  I was really losing it. I was barely conscious of him getting a paper bag and holding it to my mouth and nose. Of his hands removing me from the seat.

  Of the warm, wet air that struck me, the sweet scent of flowers and ocean. The heat of a black pavement beneath me. The caw of birds, the bright sun...

  “Breathe.”

  I did, and then everything came into focus.

  He lifted me up, and I fell into him, not able to resist anymore. As long as we were walking away from the helicopter...

  Just thinking of the word made my muscles tense. I started to breathe shallowly again, and this sent a fresh wave of sparkling stars across my vision. I didn’t want to faint, so I did my best to fight the panic that was gripping me.

  Shadows, patches of sun, more shadows. The sound of tropical birds.

  I was being set down. It was cooler where I was.

  His hands were on my forehead, his fingers at my wrist, taking my pulse?

  My eyes flew open.

  The sight of his face, of his blue eyes, the stern expression that showed concern at that moment, probably should not have made me feel any better. After all, it was this guy who had caused every single one of my problems lately.

  And yet I did feel better.

  “Breathe slowly,” he was saying, calmly and tenderly.

  So I did, and my sanity returned.

  I sat up. “Where the hell are we?” I demanded.

  We were a long way from Kansas, that much was for sure. I was on a couch, in a very expensive living room—I could tell by the wood, the walls, and the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a huge relief to see real sunlight, and the real outdoors, after being cooped up in the very plush but blacked-out last place, where all the windows had been fogged.

  In parts of the room, though, the huge windows had been slid open, and a distinctly salty breeze was billowing light white curtains into the room over the patterned wood floor. And beyond them, the enormous blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds, blending into a sea of white-capped waves. That was all I could see because a jungle of tropical trees and wildly colored flowers cut off the rest of the view.

  “I forgot,” he said absently, following my gaze out the window.

  “You forgot where we are?” I retorted.

  He looked back at me, and I noticed that his hand was on my knee, and suddenly it was all I could pay attention to. “We’re on an island in the Pacific.”

  I stared at him.

  “What did you forget? What island? What is the—”

  “Natalia,” he said, shaking his head, cutting me off. “You talk too much. You ask too many questions. You’ve had a shock. I apologize for that. Rest here and I’ll bring you something to drink.
”

  He rose, and without looking back, disappeared into the house.

  “What the...?” I spat.

  My instinct to do something about my situation took over, even if I didn’t know exactly what that was. Island in the Pacific? Like, Hawaii, or what?

  I stood up, glanced around, and ran for the open door. No problem there. There was a smooth white stone path leading into the jungle of plants and trees. I followed it, walking fast, not sure if there was any point to making a run for it, not even sure that I wanted to.

  The dense shrubbery opened up suddenly, and a large, wide porch with an elegant railing spread out in front of me, offering a view of a rocky cliff tumbling into a cerulean ocean.

  In every direction.

  I ran to the balcony. Far below, at the very edge of the rocks in a small cove, a horseshoe of white sand sank very slowly into the water. It was like a postcard. A single wooden building marred the beach, and a small boat bobbed in the water near the mouth of the cove.

  The ocean spread out everywhere beyond.

  I looked to the right and left—a stairway descended into the rocks to the right. It, too, was made of smooth white stone. To the left, another stairway spiraled up and behind me, curving around and rejoining a gleaming white and glass house, more of the huge windows looking out in layer after layer, built into the rock, tropical plants clinging to it in patches.

  The wind picked up my hair.

  It was paradise.

  But it would also seem that it was a prison.

  “The view is better from the top floor,” a voice said behind me. I turned to see Mystery Man—the guy who called himself ‘Al,’ of all things—walking toward me with an admittedly refreshing-looking glass of sparkling water with fruit at the bottom.

  I took it from him, and his gaze made my heart do that flip-flop thing again, because he was at once utterly infuriating and yet I was compelled to feel attracted to him, protected by him.

  “I take it we’re the only ones here,” I said bitterly.

  He held his own drink—no fruit—and tapped the glass, squinting into the bright sun. “I’m sorry about the helicopter ride,” he said, ignoring my question.

  I drank the drink, which was just water, and spun around to look out over the ocean. This guy was maddening as hell.

  I turned back to face him. “What the hell are we doing here? What are you doing? What... what the hell is going on?”

  He continued to stare out at the ocean, squinting, his face a terrible scowl. I could see that he was calculating something, and I decided to keep my mouth shut until he spoke. Sure, he was pissing me off, and I wanted to slap him, but I knew it was the sort of battle I wouldn’t win.

  We stood there on the balcony, warm sun heating my shoulders, lovely breezes picking up my hair. He suddenly sucked in his breath and jerked his head toward the staircase to the top of the house. “Come upstairs. I’ll show you where you will sleep.”

  I folded my arms and gave out a shriek. It was a spoiled-brat move, but what did I have to lose. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me... you tell me... at least tell me what your fucking name is!”

  His hand was at my jaw faster than I could blink, but only to rub his thumb sensually over my lower lip. “Alaric,” he said quietly. “And I want you to stop using such bad language, Natalia.”

  I narrowed my eyes, but it was a poor act to cover up that I was melting inside and welling up with excitement right into another pair of expensive underwear.

  “Come up and see the view. And I will tell you some of what you need to know.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alaric

  I watched her as she paced the windows on the top floor of the house on Orel Island. In every direction but one, the sea yawned away to nothing; only to the southeast could one faintly make out the nearest island—a fishing village—five miles away by sea. The view was spectacular, and I could see that it pleased her. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Seeing her pleased gave me a particular kind of pleasure unlike any I’d ever experienced before.

  She was trying not to show it, though, and I admired the defiant attitude. The apple, after all, never falls far from the tree. I hadn’t known her mother, but one couldn’t expect Kyril’s daughter to just give in, not even when no other choice remained for her.

  “So?” she said at last, after taking in the view and then tossing her hair, putting her hand on her hip and jutting her jaw at me, feigning a toughness I knew she did not quite possess. I admired the bravado, though. “Alaric.”

  A wave traveled through me as she said my name.

  “What kind of name is that, anyway?”

  I set my drink down. “The origin of a name is only of importance, Natalia, if it tells you something about the person who bears it.”

  “My name,” she said defiantly, “is Nata-lie, FYI.”

  This seemed like as good of a place to start as any. “No,” I advised her. “It is not. Your name is Natalia, and your surname is Karkarov, not this... Paulson. You are the daughter of a man named Kyril Karkarov.”

  Her defiance had cracked and fallen apart, leaving her wide-eyed and eager to hear more, as though someone had broken a plaster shell and revealed a doll inside of it. “I’m an orphan,” she said quietly, bringing her hands to her heart and clasping one with the other. “I don’t have any information about my parents.”

  But I could see that, for all she wanted to deny what I was saying, she knew she could not.

  “What do you remember of your childhood?” I asked her. “Before...”

  I cut myself off. I didn’t feel like finishing.

  Her eyes flashed. “Before what? My mother gave me up when I was born,” she said bitterly. “I moved around from foster home to foster home.”

  The hurt in her body was evident; her eyes fell.

  I had never given any consideration to this aspect of Natalia’s life. The pain of being alone, an orphan, believing yourself to be a child that no one wanted. It had been my own story, and I had felt the bitterness that stung her now.

  I knew better than to offer sympathy.

  But in Natalia’s case, I could offer her something else.

  “Your mother died in childbirth,” I said gently. “And then your father, a man I knew and to whom I owe a great deal, cared for you until his death.”

  Her body convulsed, and I knew the tears were coming. I had expected that—what I hadn’t expected was that I would feel her raw pain in my chest.

  This girl was becoming a problem I did not know how to deal with.

  She shook her head. “That isn’t right,” she argued, but she was losing conviction with every word. “I don’t remember—”

  “You were five when he died,” I continued.

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, I remember things from when I was five, I remember my foster parents, I remember... always... living with them...” Her voice trailed off.

  “He died in a helicopter crash,” I continued, as gently as I could. She was already bringing her hands to her head and letting out a terrible wail as I said the next part. She already knew, and the memory was surfacing, unbearable for her. “You were in the helicopter with him. I thought... you were too young to remember.”

  She collapsed onto the floor, her hands to her head. She was shaking her head, but I knew that she could feel the truth of my words even if her memories were suppressed.

  “Natalia,” I said, stepping toward her when there was a break in her sobs. “Your father loved you very much. He wanted... he asked me to hide you.”

  She looked up at me, tears on her face. “From what? What are you saying?”

  I was reaching for her without even thinking of what I was doing, my fingers in her hair, pulling her gently toward me as I knelt on the floor. She brought her hands to my forearms, as though she wanted to tear my hands away from her, but her body fell toward me, and she sank against my chest. “What are you talking about?” she repeated.


  I brought her close to me, my arms around her, wanting to envelop her in something that would not break apart, or leave, or let her get hurt. It was a promise, when all of this started, but now it was all that I wanted. To protect her, to keep her from harm, to love her...

  “I swore to your father that I would protect you. You were presumed dead, and I wanted to leave it like that... but you started to work for Andrej Sulov. And it was just a matter of time before he found out... who you were.”

  Now that I had her in my arms, I was feeling a sharp, painful fear, reaching backward into the past. All the time that I had left her out there, exposed to harm, all the time I could have kept her more carefully under my watch. Anything could have happened to her. I had been foolish, and I wouldn’t let this happen again.

  She cried for a while, and then she pulled away from me. “Who cares? Why does any of this matter?”

  Her eyes searched mine.

  What do you tell a girl like Natalia, if you have devastating secrets about her, and you are going to make her world crumble? How do you tell her that you’ve taken her fortune, but to save her life, and because that’s what her father wanted? How do you tell her that she could open a safe deposit box in Switzerland with her eyes, and a code that has been worked into one of my tattoos, and inside it find not only an ill-begotten fortune, but the location of stolen weapons-grade plutonium? That there is no shortage of men on this planet who would happily carve out her eyes to get at it, and torture her for the code she could not possibly remember?

  “Why?” she demanded, hitting me on the chest. “Why? Tell me what the hell is going on!”

  I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it even If I could have decided upon the best thing for her to know, so I held her close enough to me that she couldn’t hit me anymore. She struggled for a long time. “I can’t tell you,” I told her into her hair.

  She didn’t like that answer; I felt her body stiffen. This was different than the struggle against me, which had been more railing against the facts than against me. But now that her anger had turned upon something tangible, it was a stiff and cold anger, and I could feel the change.