15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Leighton

M y fingers clutch onto the throw blanket. My eyes are glued to the white ceiling. My body is still in place.

My thoughts, however, bounce around my head like a deranged, rabid monkey.

On the one hand, I don't hate Marcus. That much is clear. He might be the most unhinged person I've met. But I can't and probably won't ever be able to bring myself to hate him.

He's taken me here to show me he loves me.

As deranged as he is, his intentions for me are pure. I see that now, behind the thick cloud of madness enveloping us.

His love for Rylan is just as obvious. He's hiding me out here so that our… relationship …won't hurt her. Until I accept his love. Only then will he figure out what's the best way to tell Ry. That's how he's protecting her.

Another reason why I can't hate him .

I might have the constant urge to choke him. I might feel humiliated to my core when a simple change in Marcus's tone turns me into his toy.

I don't hate him.

I'm not repulsed by him, either. I'm attracted to him. To his good and bad side.

The wetness dripping down my crack will attest to that irrefutable truth. My lingering need for him consumes my thoughts worse than before. The craving to have Marcus's dangerous black eyes glaring at me again is strong.

This isn't Stockholm syndrome.

I… Ugh. I love him. I wish to God I didn't.

He's deranged.

And I love his brand of unhinged.

What does that say about me?

A psycho.

I'm a psycho.

This isn't a two wrongs make it right kind of situation. Hearing a psycho telling me being a psycho is okay doesn't make this situation okay. Not in the slightest.

The realization weighs heavy on my lungs. I suck in a long, cleansing breath. Oxygen swarms into my bloodstream. I breathe again, and the suffocating fog dissipates.

I catch myself before I get all floaty.

Good, now I can think.

Who am I? Where did this depravity come from?

I've never been this person. I'm just like everyone else. Always have been, both at school and in college. Other than my pink hair, I'd say I blend right in .

That's a lie. You've been peeping on him for years. That's taboo as hell. You practically have been waiting for a man—this man—to see you for who you really are. The right person to flesh out every dark, perverted, and wicked desire.

The voice in my head sounds alarmingly like Marcus.

Maybe he's right.

Maybe I am this person.

Maybe I'm fighting him with everything in me because I refuse to admit that being kidnapped turns me on. That I'm wet again from the memory of him grabbing me. To the needle he punctured my skin with.

Being used and ordered around and fed like I'm some sort of pet makes me feel loved and ashamed. So ashamed.

So needy.

My mind wanders, dire to find explanations for these things I'm feeling.

I told Marcus I was in love with the man I've come to know back home. Stern yet kind. Strong and gentle.

He called me out on my lie.

Am I lying? Had I seen a different version of him and I'm in some sort of denial?

I nibble on the inside of my cheek, considering it. Letting the memories flood.

Marcus sat in his study that night. When he was just Rylan's hot dad and I was seventeen.

In the dimly lit room, his frame was bathed in the amber glow of the lamp on his antique, solid oak desk. The toned muscles of his biceps flexed beneath his gray T-shirt every time he flipped a page in the psychiatry book in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration. His hair was messy as if he raked his hand through it over and over.

He looked sexy. Adorable.

Incredibly forbidden.

Rylan had left the house earlier to go to the movies with some kids from school. I'd had to push her out the door, that was how much she hadn't wanted to leave me here by myself. But I did, because she'd been obsessed with seeing Milo. It took some effort after throwing up so much. I'd done it anyway. For her.

Unless it was one of her hacker gatherings, she hardly ever left me behind. Except today, I'd fought harder. It wasn't fair that she'd miss out on the new Conjuring movie because I ate something bad and threw up ten minutes before our ride—freaking Milo—arrived.

So, there I was, leaning on the doorframe and watching Marcus in his study for what seemed like hours. The rare opportunity to ogle him presented itself wrapped in a neat little bow, and I couldn't raise my voice to tell him I'm leaving.

Like the love-sick creep I was, I hovered there in my tattered jeans and a black hoodie I pulled over my ponytail. My feet were planted in place, my heart fluttering in my chest.

Then my dry throat had to go and ruin everything for me. It itched and prickled, and my cough was inevitable.

At the sound, Marcus's head snapped up. His entire focus was trained on me instead of the book he'd been so engrossed in seconds ago.

Then his concentration transformed into concern.

"Leighton." He unfolded himself from his leather office chair, all six-foot-three of him. His long fingers curled on the top of the desk like he wanted to do something but held back. "What's wrong? Are you two back already? I heard you leave only minutes ago. Is Rylan okay? Are you?"

Being a single father couldn't have been an easy task. Especially for a loner like him.

His parents lived in Colorado. He had colleagues for friends. I hadn't seen a woman in here for years. He had no one to lean on for support other than himself.

Through it all, he managed to do an amazing job raising Ry. He'd balanced setting her boundaries while giving her enough rope to explore. Most importantly, he tried. He really loved her.

Which was why I felt bad for the worry etched on his face. I got over the tingling in my core and answered as fast as my sore throat allowed me.

"Ry's fine." Fucking cough. "She's not back. I never left. I, uh, actually, came to tell you I should probably get going."

One moment, Marcus stood behind his desk. The next, he towered over me. He flattened a hand on the doorframe next to my head, keeping an appropriate distance as he bent to examine my face. I could've walked back into the hallway.

I didn't.

The way he sucked the air out of the room scared the living fuck out of me. It hypnotized me.

"You two didn't argue or something," he surmised after looking deep into my soul.

"Dr. Kingston," I breathed, barely. "We never do."

"No, you don't." He huffed out a laugh that did the strangest things to my body. The humor hadn't lasted on his face. "You're not going anywhere before you tell me what's wrong." His lips straightened in a violent, harsh line. "Anyone's been bullying you? That's why you stayed behind?"

Hope blossomed and deflated in me in the span of a second. There was no way Marcus was being protective over me like someone would over his woman . I was his daughter's best friend. Of course, he had fatherly feelings for me.

That was all there was to it. Right?

"No. No one's bullying me."

"Then?" His cologne carried into my nose, soothing the roiling in my belly from before. "What's going on?"

"Um." I hugged my chest tighter, embarrassed as hell to talk about that , even though I brushed and sucked on a mint before I came down here. "I threw up."

I expected him to grimace with disgust. To call me a cab or offer a ride home so I wouldn't throw up in his bathroom again.

The exact opposite happened. Marcus pressed the back of his palm to my forehead. The chill of the late November evening changed into scorching heat. I choked out a moan at the feel of his skin on mine. My whole face pinched to hide the visceral reaction.

"No fever." He nodded firmly.

The loss of his touch hit me hard. Too hard.

But his next question hit the hardest. "Are you pregnant?"

I choked on air.

The tension in his voice didn't bother me. The way he flat out asked that as if he had the right to discuss my ovaries wasn't it, either.

It was the answer. My answer. I stayed a virgin by choice. No one compared to him. No. One.

I couldn't say a thing. Worried that any word I said would lead to another .

His eyes clouded at my long silence. "Leighton."

"Not pregnant." I bit my lip, taking a step back into the hallway. His hand dropped from the wall, and he matched my step with one of his own. "It's the dinner we ordered. My salad was bad. I think."

The relief in his eyes was palpable. No wonder. Last time he'd gotten the news of a surprise pregnancy, it ended with his on again, off again girlfriend's death.

And he cared about me. I was his daughter's best friend. The one who hung around his house for days on end.

I had to stop being delusional and imagine there was more to it.

But it was hard when Marcus lifted a hand, careful as he peeled back my hoodie. My insides vibrated at his touch. At his penetrative gaze. No man or boy had ever looked at me as though they tried to catalog every inch of my face.

As though they were dissecting me. Considering whether to eat me or…I didn't know. I didn't know, and yet I loved it.

"That doesn't sound like Rylan, to leave you behind when you're not well." He sounded thoughtful. He sounded delicious.

"I made her," I said slowly, my mouth heavy as I succumbed to Marcus's heat. "She was all dressed up and ready to go." I didn't add how excited she'd been for Milo to give us—and consequently her—a ride. "She didn't want to leave me behind. She's the best. Don't be upset with her."

"I'm not, I promise," he calmed me.

It seemed like we both ran out of words. Except Marcus stayed firm in place, not looking like he was going anywhere .

"I guess I'll be out of your way, then." Without breaking eye contact, I placed my hands in my jeans pockets and ventured another two painful steps backward.

My back hit the corridor's wall. Marcus's lips twitched, and he moved forward. Once again crowding my personal space.

"You'll do no such thing." Slipping a hand between my back and the wall, he shifted my body effortlessly so I faced the other way, in the direction of the living room. "I'll make you tea. I need to make sure you're okay."

"You're busy, Dr. Kingston. I saw you working there." My hand flew to an errant strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. Marcus's attention and being this close to him— touching him —wreaked havoc on my nerves. "It's okay, I'll call my parents and leave."

"It's Marcus. And no."

"Really, you don't have to do this." I didn't put up a struggle, regardless of what I said.

"No, I don't have to do this. You're family, Leigh. I want to do this."

Family. Yup. Stupid, delusional brain seeing things where they'd never existed.

That was what I thought back then, anyway.

"Come, sit." Marcus drew out one of the chairs around the dining table.

He pressed on my shoulder, signaling me to sit. Obediently, I did.

"Good girl."

Marcus turned to put the teapot on the stove. I, on the other hand, had my ears burning .

He'd called me a good girl and I was ready to kneel at his feet.

I had to pull myself together. Even if he'd never reciprocate my…love?...I refused to let him think I was as pathetic as I felt.

"Anything interesting in the head-shrinking world?"

Oh my God, what was wrong with me? I was supposed to sound smart and sassy. My silly question didn't scream smart or sassy. It had idiot written all over it. In bold fucking letters.

While the water heated, Marcus spun to me. A rare smile curved on his lips. He was either somber or smirking at our nonsense. His sincere smiles, though, those he'd save for Rylan. Hardly for me.

"Head-shrinking?"

My embarrassment returned in full force. Then it morphed into mortification. I had to swallow so I wouldn't vomit on his kitchen floor. "Uh…"

"That's what you think I do?" His voice changed.

Throwing up must have fucked with my head because I could swear Marcus was flirting.

Nah. Impossible.

Regardless, this not-flirting calmed my jittery nerves. With a genuine smile and a few words, Marcus managed to put me at ease. He made me curious.

"What is it that you do exactly, then?" I leaned my elbows on the table, perching my head on my palms. "Besides hypnotizing your patients?"

His eyes were equally intrigued and amused. Any darkness or semblance of…something else…had vanished. "My job interests you? "

Everything about him interested me. As long as it involved him, I wanted it. Including the sounds he made when he came. Which, I'd already listened to. Without his consent.

My cheeks blazed hot at the vivid imagery. Thankfully, Marcus busied himself with the cupboards, missing the fire climbing my neck.

"It does." I was proud of how confident I came off. How mature.

"All right. I'll tell you."

The water boiled. Marcus poured it into the cup he'd prepared while I was blushing. He walked over to me, placed the steaming cup on the table, then pulled out a chair for himself and sat cross-legged.

This was it. We were going to have a grown-up conversation. He might not kiss me, but not being treated like a kid for a day wasn't all that bad.

In fact, it was great.

I couldn't wait.

"I'm a psychiatrist, you know that." He wrapped his fingers around his knee. It took an immense amount of restraint to not fixate on them. Or on the veins in his forearms. "I specialize in hypnosis to help my patients cope with trauma, addictions, phobias, and stress among other things."

Now that he was opening up, my mind whirred with a million questions.

"Ask me, Leighton." He probed at me like a scientist would an insect. And boy, did I love being dissected by him. "Just ask."

"Is that like in the movies? You snap your fingers and boom ." I dropped my head, closing my eyes, feigning sleep .

A low, rumbling chuckle had my eyes snapping open. White teeth, full lips stretching on stubbled cheeks. High cheekbones of the most handsome man I've ever met.

A flash of warmth eclipsed his face. I craved more of it, for every bit of his darkness. Marcus hadn't been that willing to share it, though. His warmth disappeared before I could marvel in it.

"The process requires trust and time. It depends on the innate receptiveness of the patient." His long fingers flexed on his knee. "With some, as you described, a trance trigger will be enough after a visit or two. Others will need suggestions to be induced. I'd talk on and on about unrelated topics to take their minds off the command that may sound trivial. They'll forget they're in therapy. Then the healing process can start."

"Can't you just tell them, ‘Stop smoking' when they're induced? Why does it take more than one session?"

He gestured to my teacup. Without ever considering whether I wanted to drink or not, I obeyed. Somehow, he knew the water wouldn't burn my tongue, and I trusted him blindly.

"To your question, no." Marcus nodded in approval as I sipped. "Generally speaking, what happens is I unlock the door to their subconsciousness. We explore their past, what's blocking them, frightening them, challenging them. I tread carefully, cautious about what ideas I plant there. A mind is a fragile thing, Leighton."

His warning didn't scare me, as ominous as he sounded. It excited me. Aroused me to the point I had to clench my thighs.

"Can we try this on me?" I croaked.

Any semblance of calm disappeared from Marcus's face. His gaze became more of a glower. The air in the kitchen turned into a thunderous silence .

In this storm we were trapped in, I was lost. Mesmerized by him. Needed him. My knees ached to bend for him. My mouth yearned to open and accept anything and everything he'd put in there.

Everything.

"Now?" Marcus shifted so his hands were in his lap now.

Covering himself. The bulge in his pants. At the time, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. At the time, I was painfully na?ve.

"Yes." I pulled my shoulders back, tapping into what little confidence I could muster in his presence and in my weakened state. "I'm ready. Let's do this."

He searched my face for long, excruciating seconds. "No."

The single word was worse than a blow to my stomach. Worse than the food I had. We were having a moment, weren't we? Adult to adult? What did I do?

"No?" I asked with my smile intact. Inside, I was burning with humiliation. "Why?"

"It's irresponsible. Hypnosis isn't a parlor trick, Leighton." He rose to his feet, sealing the discussion.

My humiliation escalated into mortification.

Marcus didn't mean to make me feel like this, I was sure. There was not a shred of condescension in his tone or his words. Just a rush to end this. Almost like he refused to give this idea a second thought.

My feelings were hurt nonetheless.

"I'm sorry." I hurried to stand as well. "I didn't mean to—"

"You haven't done anything wrong." He spoke in a low, husky voice. Swiping the half-empty cup off the table, he paused. Penetrative gaze and something resembling regret stumbled over me. "I take my job very seriously. I care about my patients, and I care about you too much to venture into places where I don't belong. "

Indeed, he cared. He cared for me when he ushered me back to Ry's room. When he insisted that I stay to sleep over, walked behind me in a safe, appropriate distance. When he closed the door to Rylan's bedroom, and—as I discovered later that night as I went to peep on him—to his as well.

He cared so much until he stopped caring altogether and kidnapped me. He did it because he loved me, but there were better ways. Kinder ways.

I guess he tried. He'd bottled up his cruel side for my sake.

And therein lies my answer to why I could never hate him. Why my love for him is embedded in my DNA. Why despite everything, my body responds to Marcus's suggestions, his voice, his demands.

One weekend can't eviscerate the depths of my feelings for him. I doubt anything ever will.

But this, keeping me locked up, is bad. I'll resent him. I'll bite back when I should hug him.

Yes, I enjoy his aggressive side. Except it can get too much. What if the other Marcus never comes back?

It's up to me to fix it. To help balance him.

I throw the blanket off me and get off the couch, determined to find a way out of here. Some secret passageway he plans on sneaking through while I sleep.

Goosebumps prickle my skin like wildfire at the thought.

Focus, Leigh.

The first place I head to is the heavy leather chair behind his desk. I need clothes, and Marcus snatched the T-shirt I wore earlier when he stormed out of the room. But there it is, Marcus's navy-blue suit jacket hanging at the back of his chair .

He'd left it here for me on purpose.

I've learned plenty about Marcus Kingston over the past twenty-two years and even more so over the past weekend.

Leaving anything to chance isn't his thing.

Building this house behind Rylan's back—and he has, otherwise my bestie would've been here saving me already—must've required a shit-ton of planning. Hiring contractors, moving that much money around without Rylan noticing. The sex toys he's stocked on.

He's calculating, and that's an understatement.

He's also out there, right this fucking minute. Outside the house. I feel his eyes on me. Watching me. Waiting for me to wear another one of his garments.

Playing into his hands is sick. My other option is staying naked, which isn't much of an option. I refuse to be that vulnerable.

I shrug on his coat, inhaling his virile scent inconspicuously. Covered up, I twist to seek him out in the shadows.

No one's there.

The chill rushing up my spine, however, tells a different story.

Whatever. Let him watch me trying to get out. I owe this to myself and him. I'll run, then we'll go back to Santa Barbara and start all over again.

Now, where is that hole in the wall I'm looking for?

The expensive fabric of his coat caresses my skin as I head to the heavy wood shelves installed into the brick wall by the door. My still-sensitive flesh reacts to the teasing of the material. My nipples harden with every step I take.

I don't enjoy this. My arousal pisses me off, and I lift my hand behind me, flipping off the glass walls.

Fuck him for having a hold of me even when he's not touching me. It's been like this for far too many years. It's the reason why I turned down one boy after the other. Why I betrayed my best friend by peeping on her dad.

What's changed now is that I'm actually entitled to this childish response.

I'm answered by nothing but silence. I lower my hand, getting over myself. I have other matters to take care of.

My fingers trace the book spines one after the other, searching for one that seems out of place. My eyes are closed as I tune in to feel the books. One of those has to be the one that'll set me free.

Then I'll outrun Marcus, hide in the shadows. Give him the space to consider how wrong this is. For his sake and mine. Hell, we might even be able to date once he realizes we don't have to act this crazy to love each other.

You love his crazy, though.

No, no, I don't.

"Ugh," I groan when no book turns out to be the one to be my key to freedom.

My eyes snap open as my frustration overwhelms me, hard and infuriating. There's no switch here. Nothing but books and books I assume are on the topics of psychiatry, hypnosis and—

"What?" I choke out .

The shelves are packed with architecture and art books. Expensive ones too. The ones I've been drooling over and promised myself I'll buy as soon as I get my first paycheck.

They…they…oh, fuck. They were on my online wish list. I haven't browsed through it in months to notice they've been deleted from it. And here they are.

My gaze roams on the shelves, from top to bottom. I'm pretty sure every one of them is here.

Annoying tears burn in the back of my eyes. He's not letting me go. He's been planning on keeping me here for God knows how long. Filling this prison with entertainment that'd last me a lifetime.

I won't bang on the door and call him. I won't thank him. Even though I want to. Even though I long to kiss him long and hard for it.

Not when I'm an emotional mess.

He's calculated, and I can't afford to be reckless.

To calm myself, I choose an urban architecture book and pull it off the shelf.

Another shocked "What?" slips past my lips.

I shouldn't be surprised by Marcus's crazy ways, but I am.

These are my photos he's plastered to the wall behind the books.

One I don't remember anyone taking. Equally intrigued and furious, I toss the precious book to the floor. Then another one. And another.

More photos plastered on every available space.

Me in a bikini. Me in a cute outfit walking up the Kingstons' driveway. Here's me sunbathing in my white bikini and large sunglasses. Me sitting around their dining room table, studying for the fall semester.

Rylan was next to me that day. She doesn't appear in any of the photos.

Only me.

Squatting to the lowest shelf, I find the most disturbing photo of them all. I rip it off the wall, chipping the paint and not caring one fucking bit.

"What in the ever-loving fuck," I hiss as I stare at my sleeping form.

He wasn't exaggerating when he said he came on my face while I slept. Rylan's not on the pillow at my side. I'm alone, defenseless, and my lips glisten.

Every rational bone in my body knows I shouldn't be turned on by this. Had any other boy done this to me, Ry would've helped me kick his ass. Neither of us would've rested until his cock was sliced off and we had his balls in a blender.

I skim my fingers over the glossy picture. No one interested him but me. No other woman, no other patient, no one, and nothing else, period.

Heat blooms in my belly. My breath picks up.

I don't recognize my own self. I'm torn. Hurting.

I'm flattered. I'm aroused.

Marcus is right. I'm just as fucked up in the head as he is.

He doesn't want to call us psychos.

He doesn't have to. Actions speak louder than words.

And neither of us is quiet.