Criminal Read online

  Her hips and ass are framed perfectly. She has a hot little figure. I’ll have fun with that later. For the moment I just give her a smack on that butt and lift her feet up to toss her into the trunk. I catch a glimpse of her eyes just before I close the lid on her. Brown. Furious. Beautiful.

  She hates me already. Perfect.

  Chapter Three

  Sonya

  The inside of this trunk smells better than one would think. I half-expected the stench of rotten corpses or something, but it smells like expensive leather and cologne, and it’s messing with my mind. Here I am, knowing I’m being taken to certain death, appreciating the scent. I’m inhaling through my nose using the slow, deliberate breathing technique I learned in my training to keep myself calm in intense situations. It’s the only reason I didn’t lose my shit and flail like a fish out of water when he put me in this trunk to begin with. He just bent me over and folded me in here like it was no big deal, then smacked my ass like it was just the thing to do.

  I have an idea of who he might be, but I need more pieces to the puzzle before I put it altogether. For now, I need to stay alert.

  I focus on listening to the sounds outside, as if somehow the gravel crunching under tires and whir of wind will tell me we’re moving east or north, but that’s bullshit. Everything’s muffled in here. I think I can’t even hear anything, until the distinct sound of a voice within the car speaks loud and clear.

  “Incoming call.” It says no name. Of course it doesn’t. Like he’s going to store contacts by their real names. We go over a bump and my teeth clash together as he presses a button to answer it.

  “Make it quick,” he orders. “And be aware that anything you say may be overheard.”

  He has a conversation with someone, but I can’t really tell who it is. It’s hot as hell in here, and I’m feeling a little lightheaded. My ears perk up when his tone sharpens, though.

  “Brava’s been dealt with,” he says. “I’ve spared his life for the moment but be sure you follow up and make sure he’s learned his lesson. Understood?” A brief pause, then, “Painful and memorable.”

  I shiver. Fear trickles down my spine. Even though Brava deserves to face punishment for his crimes, the casual way this man orders violence is chilling.

  “Send everyone home.”

  My stomach clenches. I’m guessing he’s dismissing them so he has no witnesses to what he’s about to do to me.

  I don’t know how long we drive, but I’m pretty sure I doze off, since the next thing I know the trunk’s being opened and I have no memory of the car actually stopping. He frowns and looks in at me. “Good,” he says. “Still breathing. It will be a lot more entertaining if you’re alive.”

  My stomach drops. I’ve trained for this shit, and yet actually being at his mercy is a lot scarier than one would think. I’m dizzy and I realize it’s because I’m holding my breath, so as quietly as I can I try to breathe in. He reaches down into the trunk and I brace myself, expecting him to haul me out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for a suit jacket that lies above my head, and I realize that’s why the trunk was filled with the scent of men’s cologne. The rich, extravagant aroma fills my nostrils, and it has a strangely calming effect on me. I shake my head, trying to clear it. It’s time to be alert.

  “Shaking your head?” he asks, a corner of his lips quirking up. “That won’t do much to protect you.” I don’t respond. I won’t be baited.

  He shrugs on his suit jacket, and I take in every single detail. I tell myself it’s because I’m trained to observe, but my training doesn’t make me linger on the firm jaw and breadth of his shoulders. The lack of oxygen and cologne is getting to my head. This man has kidnapped me and is likely planning to do wicked, painful things to me, and I’m gawking at him as if he’s the quarterback of the fucking football team. So when he reaches for me, I freeze, allowing myself to become dead weight. His arms go under my legs and behind my back, and his scent overwhelms me. He pulls me to his chest as if I weigh nothing at all, turns, and uses his elbow to shut the trunk.

  I try to see where we’re going but it’s pitch black. In front of us looms a house, but I can see nothing but dark green bushes flanking the doorway. His feet crunch on gravel and he walks past the front entrance, only visible through moonlight. He walks to the back. There’s a doorway here, down a small flight of stairs.

  He’s taking me to the basement.

  He places me on my feet, bends and quickly cuts the tie at my ankles with something in his hand. A razor? He stands and holds me in place with one large, firm hand at my collarbone, not squeezing my neck but reminding me that he can. I’m not going to fight. I’m not going to run. Not yet. He’s so much bigger and stronger and he knows where we are. It would be writing my own death sentence if I left now.

  He presses his thumb to a lock, and the lock clicks open at the thumbprint recognition. He pushes the door open and drags me in. “Don’t fight me. No talking. Follow my instructions.” His tone is almost bored, as if he’s someone used to being obeyed and won’t expend any further energy than necessary. I stand where he puts me, while he looks around, likely making sure his instructions to vacate the premises were followed.

  This doesn’t make sense to me. I expect him to live in opulence, to have people waiting on him hand and foot. Or maybe I misjudged? Just because he’s well-dressed and has men that work for him doesn’t mean he’s wealthy. Maybe he’s just a normal guy who has a couple of nice suits for show. Maybe this is home. Hell, maybe he lives in his mother’s basement. For some weird reason, that disappoints me. What the hell? We’re not on a fucking date. But the vision of him I had being all-powerful and mighty evaporates like smoke, and now I wonder.

  He turns to gaze at me, and now that we’re here he really does look. His eyes roam over my body, and I know what he’s seeing. The petite gymnast’s frame. The thick, black hair I inherited from my mother, and her almond-shaped eyes. He smirks at me.

  “The Bureau filled their quota?” he asks with a smirk before he removes the tie gagging me.

  “Fuck you,” I respond, without thinking and immediately regret it. I’ve learned not to act impulsively, but my mouth still has a mind of its own. The temperature in the room immediately changes when his body tightens, waves of barely restrained anger hit me like a physical blow. He still smirks, but now it has a more ominous feel to it.

  “That’s enough now,” he says quietly. Facing me, he shrugs off his suit coat. “Speak out of turn, and I’ll punish you. I won’t kill you. Not now, anyway. I don’t like the blood of pretty little girls on my hands.” He shrugs, and his smirk grows wicked. “I usually leave that to the people who work for me.”

  I tell myself not to listen to him, that he’s trying to freak me out, but I can’t help the tremble that begins in my knees and travels to my whole body.

  He kicks off his shoes and leaves them next to the couch, then reaches for the buckle at his waist. He tugs the leather through the loops, and holds the buckle in his palm, running a finger tenderly around the loop of leather. Is he going to beat me with it? “Just so we’re clear,” he says. “Punishment will be painful for you. I’m a man with particular tastes, and if you give me a reason to hurt you, I’ll enjoy it.” He takes the leather in his hand and snaps it against his palm, making me jump. Though a red mark blooms against his skin, he doesn’t even flinch.

  I have to literally bite my cheek so I don’t call him out for being a sadistic asshole.

  Next, he begins to unbutton his shirt, his eyes on me. Is this some sort of prelude to where he plans to strip naked and rape me? He likes toying with me, so he can unnerve me, then he’ll brutally take me? It isn’t until right then, when I’m standing in front of him, unable to avert my eyes as he methodically unbuttons his shirt, that I realize the fear of him raping me is the biggest one I have. I’ve been beaten before and one learns to mentally detach from physical pain. I don’t even fear death. I’ve witnessed murders and executions, and I ac
cepted long ago that if I faced potential death bravely, I could handle almost anything. But the idea of him violating my body sends terror through my chest like shards of glacial ice.

  I need to stop those thoughts from coming at me, but I can’t help it. I need to know what he’s going to do with me. Once I know, I can face it.

  He reaches the last button on his shirt, shrugs out of it, and balls it up. He turns from me, releasing me from his gaze, opens the door to the bathroom, and tosses his shirt in a white wicker basket. When he turns to face me, I see his full profile. He wears a t-shirt, stark white against his tanned skin, but then he reaches for the bottom and pulls it off, muscles bunching and tensing as he strips. He turns to me, and I swallow hard.

  I couldn’t take this man down and he knows it. The man is solid muscle, powerful and magnificent, even as he inspires terror in me. A smattering of dark hair covers his chest, his entire frame muscled and strong. My gaze lingers at his abdomen, the light catching the edge of a silver scar that mars his perfect abs. Still standing near the basket, he unbuckles his pants, shoves them off, and tosses them in with the other clothes. He stands now in nothing but a pair of navy-blue boxers that hug his frame. My stomach clenches when I see the shadow of his erection. He’s turned on stripping for me while I watch. I turn away. I don’t like letting him have this control over me.

  I hear the sound of running water and have to look back. He no longer stands in the doorway. What’s he doing?

  “Come here,” he orders.

  I freeze. Why does he want me in the bathroom? But he’s not a patient man.

  “Now.”

  I shake myself and follow him. Until I know where we are and who he is, I’ll cooperate with him as much as I can and bide my time. When I reach him, he takes my arm, and to my surprise, spins me around and smacks his hand against my ass. “When I give you an instruction, I expect immediate obedience,” he chides. He gives me another hard swat. “Am I clear?”

  I blink in surprise and I nod my head.

  “Yes, sir,” he instructs. I swallow.

  Jesus. Asshole.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m releasing your hands for the moment. Behave yourself, or I’ll take you across my knee and redden your ass.”

  So that’s how it’s going to be? He won’t backhand me, but he’ll humiliate me and punish me like a child. Frowning, he reaches for a gleaming pair of scissors. I shiver when he brings them close to me, but he just snips the cable ties. My hands swing free and I breathe a sigh of relief, but my relief is short-lived for as soon as I’m free, he begins to strip me.

  “I can take my own clothes off,” I protest, but he ignores me. With strong, purposeful hands, he rakes my shirt over my head and tugs it off, unfastens my bra with ease, and before I know what he’s doing, I’m sitting on his lap facing outward and he’s undoing my pants. He pushes me to standing, shoves them off of me, then grasps the edge of my panties and tears them down, too. I’m ashamed of being naked in front of him but try to mentally detach myself from it so I can keep my head about me.

  “Stop,” I protest, trying to wriggle away, but a sharp smack freezes me in place.

  “I said behave. It’s only a matter of time before I punish you. Do you really want it to be before I clean you?”

  “I don’t need to be cleaned,” I hiss, but before I can protest again, he sits me on his knee and spins me around to look at him. He takes my chin between his fingers so I’m forced to look into his eyes. They’re bluish with a hint of green, vibrant, piercing, and furious.

  “You listen to me, little girl,” he says, his voice calm. “Brava touched you. Licked you. Now you belong to me, to do with what I wish. I need to wash his touch off you.”

  He wants to clean me because Brava touched me? Is he insane? He’s got to be. But God, it can’t be denied he’s beautiful. If he wasn’t a monster, he’d be stunningly handsome. Rugged and strong and masculine, with eyes that pierce the very soul.

  “Into the tub,” he says, as if he’s a daddy about to give his little girl her bath. He takes me by the hand, and I step in. It’s warm and fragrant, and I like that, but this is so fucking wrong. I wonder briefly if I get him just the right way, can I crack his head against the tile and drown him? If I make a false move, though, I could find my head plunged under the water. I sit in the tub and he looms over me, reaching for a bar of soap. To my surprise, he hands it to me.

  “Clean yourself,” he says. “I want to watch.”

  I shiver, despite the warm water, take the soap and quickly lather my body, using my palm to cup water and rinse off the suds. “No shower?” I ask him.

  He shrugs and smiles lazily. “I didn’t want the steam clouding my vision. I like to take my time with a new toy. Savor the unwrapping.”

  My stomach twists. He stands, leans over to a shelf, and comes back with a towel in hand. “Stand.”

  I do, dripping wet and shivering in the cold, but he wraps the towel around me, and lifts me straight out of the tub. He stands me in front of him, towels me dry, and lingers between my legs. “You belong to me now,” he says. “You’ll do whatever I tell you or face the consequences. I’m tired and not in the mood to repeat myself, so listen carefully and follow my instructions.” I feel his hand grasp the hair at the back of my head, and he tugs, sending pain radiating along my scalp. “Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I grit out, suddenly overcome with exhaustion myself.

  He lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed. If I closed my eyes, this would almost feel nice, like he’s rescuing me. I blink. I’m exhausted. I’m losing my focus. I bite the inside of my mouth until I taste the bitter copper of blood. I need to stay awake. I can’t let my mind grow hazy.

  He turns down the covers, lays me down, and removes the towel. “Stay there,” he instructs. “No moving.”

  I do what he says, enjoying the luxurious feel of the soft sheets, and watch as he goes to the kitchen and pours a glass of water. He opens a cabinet, removes something, then puts it into the water. He gives it a good stir, then comes to me.

  Jesus. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s drugging me.

  “I want you to sleep well,” he says. “Drink.”

  I know he’ll punish me, but I need to see how bad it will be. I need to see how much I can take. And hell, I’m not willingly allowing him to drug me.

  I shake my head. He raises a brow with what looks like surprise. “Did you say no to me?” he asks.

  I swallow, gather up my courage, and shake my head again. “I’m not drinking that.”

  Frowning, he places the glass down on the bedside table, turns down the blankets, and reaches for me. I try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. In seconds I’m up in the air, unable to fight him off me, and to my surprise I find myself belly-down over his knee. He grasps my flailing hands with one of his, and pins both to my lower back, then his palm crashes against my naked, still damp ass. He spanks me so hard the breath whooshes out of me. With the third biting smack of his palm I let out an involuntary wail. It hurts more than I expected it would, like a million bee stings on my bare skin. I squirm and fight, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s done this before. I can’t get away. I can’t make the pain stop. He spanks me on and on until I just need it to stop.

  “Stop!” I beg.

  He pauses, hand raised to strike again. “Will you do what I say?”

  I pause too long, and he resumes the vicious spanking, his hand striking so hard I can feel the tender skin welting. How long will this go on? Will he beat me black and blue? I won’t cave.

  “Now will you?” he asks. Jesus, he’s not even winded.

  I shake my head. He restrains me with one arm, reaches to the bedside table, and I hear the sound of a drawer being opened. God, what’s he going to do to me?

  “You’re not going to win,” he says, with almost regretful patience. “I’ll punish you for your defiance, and I’ll still get my way.”

  I’m unprepared
for the whistle through the air that warns me too late, and a stripe of red-hot pain blossoms against my skin. I howl and squirm, but he holds fast. I have no idea what he’s spanking me with. It’s no longer his palm, but something searing and brutal. Is it a whip? I turn my head to look but can’t focus when another sharp bite lands on my skin. I don’t even bother trying to take it bravely but howl. I can’t take it anymore.

  “Stop,” I beg, but he doesn’t.

  “Will you obey me now?”

  What do I have to gain by refusing, besides more pain?

  “Fine,” I wail. “Just stop.”

  He gives me one more biting smack, then tosses the thing to the table and sits me upright on his lap. He spins me around to look at him. He hasn’t broken a sweat.

  “You’re overreacting,” he says with a frown.

  “You just whipped me,” I protest without thinking. My voice catches at the end.

  He raises a dark brow. His blue eyes are storm clouds offering no apology. “Your point?”

  I shiver, panting from the effort of the struggle and trying not to cry. I’m in so much damn pain. I look away so he doesn’t see my eyes water. Almost tenderly, he holds me to his chest but it’s only to restrain me as he reaches for the glass.

  “I am not a good man,” he says, and I wonder if it’s the trauma that makes me imagine his voice is tinged with regret. “But one thing I am not is a liar. I’ll tell you one more time, this will only make you sleep.” He holds it to my lips. “Drink.”

  The cool liquid tastes good after my ordeal. It’s sweet with the slightest bitter edge. When the cup is empty, my eyes feel heavy. He lowers me onto the bed as my mind begins to fog.

  “Tell me your name,” he says in my ear.

  It takes considerable effort to reply, but I’m too tired to fight him. “Sonya,” I mutter through thick lips, just before I succumb to the darkness.