Apparently, my little captive is having quite the pleasant dream, and as much as I know I need to spin my ass around and return to the bed I was just in, I don’t. I can’t. It’s too much like watching my Darya again, the way she used to enjoy playing with herself for me, purposely driving me mad with lust. In my family, I am known for my exceptional self-control and unwavering willpower, but this is something I can’t deny myself. She may be my biggest threat yet.

When the muffled whimpers pass through her lips and she arches her back like a sleepy kitten, pressing her taut nipples against the thin cotton of the shirt—my shirt—it takes every ounce of resolve I have not to stalk over to the couch and touch her. Just once. Just a reminder of what a woman’s smooth skin feels like beneath my hands.

Somehow, I refrain. However, I find myself rubbing my thick shaft outside my black athletic pants as I leer at her, imagining how it’d feel if it were her hand on my dick instead of mine. Or better yet, her mouth. My entire body tenses at the visual, a feral growl rumbling inside of my chest.

“Please . . . please . . . oh, please,” she begs repeatedly while squirming on the couch, clenching her upper thighs together.

My hand moves inside my pants, my fingers wrapping securely around my shaft as I begin to slowly stroke. She lifts her arms above her head, causing her hands to fall over the side of the arm rest, wrists crossed like they’re bound together, and the memory of her tied to the bed the first night she was in my house flashes in my mind. I feared then she would ruin me. When I looked into her eyes the first time, I knew she would.

Those fucking eyes. A blue with such depth that not even the most expensive sapphire in the world could compare. A blue that I’ve only seen once before. Moi Darya. My fucking kryptonite.

A loud moan followed by a clear “Yes, Sir” demands my attention, and I begin to increase my tempo. I’ve jacked off hundreds of times in the last couple of years, been to so many strip joints that seeing a naked woman isn’t even exciting for me any longer, but this . . . watching her like this is one of the fucking sexiest things I’ve ever seen. She’s my best dream and worst nightmare all in one package. And I’m fucking powerless.

Just as I feel my balls contract, my orgasm threatening, she winces and coughs out a scream, her expression instantly changing from one of pure ecstasy to that of complete horror. Immediately, I release the grip on my cock, confused.

Her arms swing down and wrap around her midsection like a coat of armor. Then, drawing her knees up to a fetal position, she begins to tremble as she shakes her head repeatedly.

“No! No! Get off me!”

The panic in her voice slices through me, and straightaway, all of the sexual hunger in my body is instantly replaced by concern. Her neck twists violently from side to side as her body contracts, all while she continues to cry out her pleas for whoever to stop what they’re doing. My heart sinks as my stomach clenches, slamming into one another in a powerful explosion that hurls me toward her.

Scooping her into my arms, I lower myself into the chair adjacent to the couch and hold her close to me, desperate to soothe her. I rock my upper body back and forth slightly while pressing my lips to the top of her head in a comforting kiss.

“Quiet there, kotyonok. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whisper, my brain still dealing with the whiplash of the previous couple minutes.

Thankfully, she snuggles deeper into my chest, and her frantic breathing gradually begins to even out, the sobs subsiding. I have no idea what the fuck just happened, but I know all too well dreams like that aren’t the product of an active imagination. Whatever nightmare she just faced while asleep is one she knows all too well while awake. And it makes me want to fucking kill whoever did it to her. After I torture them for hours upon endless hours.

The moment she shakes off the lingering slumber haze and realizes she’s tucked up against me, every muscle in her body pulls taut and she stops breathing. I can almost hear the war going on inside her brain. Part of her wants to push off of me, to scamper back to the couch and put some distance between us, but at the same time, she’s shaken and distraught over whatever she just remembered, and finds much-needed security and solace in my arms.

My hold on her never wavers. I can’t forget what I just saw, and even though it was quick, there’s no denying the intensity of whatever she experienced. I have to know what happened. I have to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know why, but I have to.

“Are you okay, girl?” I finally ask, my throat feeling thick.

“Yeah.” Nodding, she hiccups back a sniffle.

I’m pleased she makes no effort to break free from my lap, and I take it as my cue to keep talking. “Do you remember what you were dreaming about? I heard you calling out, so I came to check on you.” It wasn’t a total lie.

She nods again. “Yeah.”

“Vincent?”

“No,” she mumbles. “Much worse.”

I go with the natural second guess. “Ish?”

She clings tighter to me at the sound of his name, answering my question without any words.

For a few minutes, we sit there silently, each lost in our own thoughts. I wonder if it was Ish or Madden—who I now know is the guy she’s been seeing recently—that she was imagining during the first part of the dream. Then, I’m curious why she considers Ish much worse, since he’s obviously not a threat to her anymore. She made sure of that.

“Why?” The word tumbles from my mouth before I can think.

She tilts her head back to peer up at me through her wet, spiky eyelashes. “Why what?”

Our eyes meet, a cerulean collision that momentarily steals my breath. Her resemblance to Darya is even greater cradled in my arms. I swallow hard before finding the words. “Why do you consider Ish ‘much worse’ than his father?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Because those you love always have the power to hurt you the most.”

“Smart girl,” I reply. There’s a hint of surprise in my voice, but it’s not because of her answer; it’s due to this sudden shift in the atmosphere between us. I’m not sure what it is, or quite how to describe it, but it’s different. We’re different. For some reason, I find myself hoping we stay this way. I meant it when I told her I won’t let anything happen to her. She’s not only under my watch, but she’s my responsibility, and that makes my chest swell a little.

Using my hand to cradle the back of her neck, I gently guide her head back down to lie on my chest and rest my chin on her forehead. “Get some more sleep, kotyonok. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

THE EARLY MORNING SUN FILTERS through the sheer curtains drawn across the window, providing a warm glow in the downtown Chicago hotel room. Unfortunately, as I sit on the plush king-sized bed, drinking a cup of coffee while reading old newspaper articles online, I feel anything but warm inside. After reading the details of Blake’s life as Bryleigh, the blood running through my veins is as cold as an arctic glacier. Colder even.

Thinking about what she was forced to endure—the things she must’ve witnessed, and even worse, experienced—makes me downright murderous. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t find Vincent Ricci yesterday on my initial recon mission here in the Windy City. I probably would’ve woken up in a sterile prison cell this morning, instead of the Hilton.

A knock at the door temporarily interrupts my homicidal thoughts, and I slide off the mattress to let the room service attendant in, throwing a t-shirt on with my pajama pants before opening the door. I’m not even sure why I ordered food in the first place. It holds no appeal; my appetite vanished with Blake. Sleep evades me as well. I either dream of my sweet girl being with me, only to wake to the nightmare she’s not, or I dream of the horrifying events she suffered through that brought her to California to begin with.