3. Tatum

CHAPTER 3

TATUM

S omething feels off. It's like a part of me is missing.

I open my eyes to a familiar sight. Fee at my side, one of her legs locked between my knees. Her arm hanging over my side, head tilted back, breathing morning breath directly into my face. I arch my back, longing for familiar pressure. This is normally when Abi's morning glory leaks onto my back. Instead, my back is cold and dry. I glance over my shoulder, unsure of where he is until I spot my makeup strewn about on the floor. I'm reminded that Scotty was using it last night and forgot to put it away. They left in a flurry after Abi finger-fucked me to completion in front of them. Then he tried to clean the cum off of me, and I ...

I sent him away.

He was breaking like glass in front of me, and I still made him go. And, for what? Because he made me come? Not the first time, probably won't be the last. A small part of me is almost hopeful it won't be the last, because Mary, mother of Daddy Christ, superstar, I've never come so hard in all my life. With just a few stubby little fingers, Abi guided me through a sexual awakening.

Then he said those words .

Terrible words. Fucking horrifying words. Those words have no business resting in his mouth. No right in the world to spill out in front of our friends, no less! He can't say them again, because they can't be true. Who could ever love someone like me? Nito drilled it into my head more times than I can count. That I was nothing. I was unworthy of his touch, but I was welcome to watch him touch my boyfriends. And what had I done? I sat in the fucking chair, and I watched him take them from me, night after night. I stuck it out for months. Staying longer than any rational adult would have stayed, and then, I stayed a little longer for fear of letting go.

Who the fuck could ever love a loser like that?

There's no use dwelling on Benito fucking Blankenship. Not when Abi's out there thinking I hate him. I don't have a big, sweeping romantic gesture planned, I just need him to know I didn't mean what I said last night. He works in a dangerous field where every day might be his last, and I'll never forgive myself if he dies thinking I hate him. I sit up, attempting to unwedge my legs from Fee's octopus-like embrace. She snorts a breath as she stirs herself awake, looking confused when she notices Abi's empty spot in bed. She was already asleep when I made it home last night, and there have only been a handful of times Abi hasn't woken up wrapped around me like a candy wrapper, so I can understand the concern.

"Good morning, cheeky boy." She brings her hand to my face and pushes a strand of hair away from my eyes. "Did you sleep well?" I shake my head. She darts her eyes toward Abi's empty space. "Rough night?"

"We had a fight," I say, trying to roll away, but her grip is firm.

"What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I'm the one who did something wrong?"

"Because Kincaid worships the ground you walk on. You're basically his god. You're literally attached at the hip." She taps the tip of my nose with her finger. "He totes you around like a fanny pack."

"Yes, well, he has very big hands. I can't exactly control what he does with them." I point at a blank space on the wall, shouting, "Scorpion!" at the top of my lungs. It's a ridiculous claim, but Fee takes the bait, loosening the hold she has on me long enough for me to scramble out of her grasp and off the bed. It's only now I realize what I'm wearing. I'm in my Abi-issued crop top and jockstrap. Strangely, it feels a bit uncomfortable being in this state of undress in front of only Fiona. I've gotten used to my ass being on full display. Abi's always around, though, so it never feels awkward. Being wrapped around him wearing next to nothing feels more normal than normal has ever felt. When Abi's hand is on my hip, pulling me closer, it's almost as if my body becomes an extension of his body, and I trust him to keep himself safe. Now, I don't feel like a part of him. I just feel like a weirdo with boundary issues flashing his ass at a friend.

I make my way to our single chest of drawers and pull out a pair of pink joggers from one of my two assigned drawers. Once I'm no longer flashing my bits and bobbles at Fee, I toss the crop top I wore to bed into our hamper and slide into a white tank with the word's Abi's Boy in pink glittery font. This shirt is one of my most treasured possessions, though I'd never tell him that. He got it for me after his final overnight assignment. If I'm being honest, I've never felt more relieved in my life than the day he gave me this shirt. The few nights we spent apart felt like someone had ripped a limb from my body. I was left at the mercy of Scotty's problematic behavior, Brody's constant death threats, and the endless stories Barb—the owner and proprietor of the shitty, one-star motel we've been staying at for the last six months—tells us about her time as a flapper dance in the nineteen-forties.

I was forced to be the voice of reason amongst a swarm of psychopaths. More than that, every second Abi was away felt wrong. The last two times he was away, I wound up hiding myself away in our room, clinging to pillows that still smelled like my captor. When he finally got home, I was unable to contain my excitement. He hadn't even made it out of the car before I was on him, my legs around his waist, my hand on his wrist, guiding it to where it belonged.

My hole feels just as empty now as it did then, and I want to feel him again, filling me up.

I shouldn't have spoken to him the way I did last night. I mean, yes, he's kidnapped me and kept me hostage for over half a year, but who am I kidding? This is home. He is my home. Now, without him, that home feels empty. Emptier than the final few months of my relationship with Austin and the Bens.

"Cheeky boy?" Fee says, and when I turn around, she's got her arms open, inviting me in. The woman is just as big a part of my life as Abi. We've formed a friendship of sorts. One that's built upon sass and shade. There's no sass on her face now, though. Just an outpouring of support. "Come here."

I shuffle over slowly, tugging the tail of my shirt and staring at my feet like a dog that's been caught chewing the remote. She takes my hand and guides me down until I'm sitting in her lap.

"I don't like to see you hurting," she says, feathering her fingers through my hair and massaging my scalp. "And I don't want Kincaid hurting, either. Talk to me. Maybe I can help."

I bite my lip and shake my head. "I was an asshole."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "You're always an asshole. It's one of the reasons we love you."

"No. I said some really cruel things to him last night. I slapped him."

"You always slap him. That's another one of the reasons he loves you. He likes it rough. Believe me, I should know," she says, and there's a strange, protective surge that slams through me. I must give the game away, because a cocky grin splits her face. "What's wrong? Jealous?"

I narrow my eyes. "Cry, bye, die."

She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head like I'm the most amusing thing in the world, before leaning in and giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. "Can I be honest with you?" I shrug, because I don't have much say in the matter. "Is this about us going home for the wedding?"

"What would that have to do with anything?"

She looks away, staring at what must be a particularly fascinating selection of vacant wall space. "I just thought you might be worried about what people will think." It isn't lost on me that she doesn't mention my boyfriends. They're a big part of the reason I'm worried, but they're not the biggest reason.

My body is a bundle of nerves. A hundred little live wires, all sparking and firing inside me. I don't know how I'll explain our situationship to my parents. They won't understand the dynamic of our relationship, and I can't exactly tell them it's because he's my kidnapper.

There's also the cold hard fact I'll have to spend two weeks without his finger inside me, slowly fucking me on an endless loop throughout the day. Despite what I told him last night, I'm pretty sure I have Stockholm syndrome, and even worse, I think I kind of like it. Both my heart and my hole are empty, and they're screaming to be filled. How am I going to make it for two weeks without him inside me? It's barely been eight hours, and I already feel like an empty shell.

"I'm going to find him," I say to Fee. "Put some clothes on, you look like a raggamuffin."

She stares down at her sleeping ensemble—a faded white shirt, insisting we Just Say No . A bit ironic, considering the first two months of our friendship, she and Abi mostly kept me drugged in a dissociative state—at my own request, if Abi is to be believed—but I'm not going to risk life and limb by pointing that out.

"You don't like this shirt?" She lifts it, exposing a few inches of her brown skin. "Kincaid's never had any complaints. He used to say he liked the way my tits look when I wear it." Letting go of the shirttail, she cups her unnecessarily large breasts and gives them a shake. "He liked to slide his dick between them when I put this shirt on. He would rut between them long enough to give me a pearl necklace." Releasing the hold she has on her breasts, she softly taps my hip, motioning for me to hop up. Once I'm off her lap, she stands and stretches, her arms extended well over her head as she lets out an obnoxious yawn. "He hasn't touched me in months, Tatum. Not since the night we killed Scotty's dad. Doesn't that tell you something? He adores you, and I love you enough to let him go."

Guilt rises in my gut like acid reflux, working its way up my throat until all I taste is scorching bile. "I didn't ask you to stop fucking him."

"I never said you did. You didn't have to ask anything. I care about you, whether you choose to believe it or not. Your happiness matters to me, and so does his." She bridges the distance between us and pulls me in for a quick hug. "Now, go on. Say your morning prayers, and then go find him. I'm going to head across the street and let the farmer watch me masturbate."

Her absurd daily agenda aside, Fee has a point. If there's any chance at salvaging this hellish morning, I need to commune with my lord and savior. The Goddess. Opening the only closet in our cabin, I kneel at her altar.

My prayer closet is something Abi set up as soon as we moved in, much to Fiona's annoyance. She complained for an hour straight about our small home and lack of storage space. I didn't ask him to set up a shrine to my personal deity, but he did so anyway.

Inside the closet, a small hot-pink TV dinner tray stands proudly with a pink picture frame in the center. On either side of the photo is a rose-scented candle. I grab the bedazzled lighter Abi bought for me shortly after we met and light both wicks, inhaling deeply, wanting to smell the familiar tranquil scent.

And as I breathe in the soon-to-be rose-scented air, I smile at the autographed photo of my queen. My goddess. My Rinna.

"Television's Lisa Rinna, who art in Beverly Hills, hallowed be your name," I whisper, making a sign of the cross on my chest. I wasn't raised Catholic—and thank the Goddess for that. I mean, could you imagine me living out their ridiculous expectations of a chaste life due to my homosexuality? Fuck-to-the-no—so I'm not entirely sure if I've done it correctly, but Rinna knows my heart, and I'm sure she'd forgive me for getting it wrong. "I come to you seeking patience, guidance, and a calm heart, my queen."

There's movement behind me, but I don't turn around. The front door opens, then closes. One thing I will give Fee credit for is her unconditional friendship. She's never shamed me for my silly, made-up religion. She's never asked me to explain why I pray to a reality television star. It's as if she knows it's a triggering topic, so she avoids it at all costs.

I was raised a Baptist, just like Scotty. Having grown up three homes away from each other, we were fast friends. After his father sent him to conversion camp, I begged my parents to send me too, just so I could keep an eye on him. As left-leaning progressives, they didn't understand why I would willingly subject myself to conversion therapy, but even back then I'd do just about anything to make sure my biffle was safe. The month we spent at Heartlight Ridge was the single worst month of my life, and I came out of the experience with a festering resentment toward Christianity. It's hard to praise the Lord when he allows his followers to bully children for the way they were born.

So, I constructed my own religion. I missed having a sense of connection with a higher power, but none of the ones I researched tickled my fancy. I tried worshiping nature as a Wiccan, but then I learned potions and spells weren't real, so I lost interest. After that, I dabbled with the Greek gods, but the more I learned of them, the less eager I became to pledge them my eternal soul. Then I read The Song of Achilles and realized those gods and goddesses are fucking assholes. Thank you, Madeline Miller, for leading me from temptation with your powerful and passionate prose. With no other deities at my disposal, I improvised by purchasing a signed headshot of my favorite Real Housewife, Lisa Rinna, off eBay. The day it came in, I framed it, and I began my two-year celestial relationship.

"I need your help, Lisa Rinna. I've done something I don't know how to take back." My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I power on the screen, I see Fee has sent me a picture of Abi and myself. It's not a new photo; just one she took a few months back. In it, I'm wearing the same shirt I've got on now, scowling something fierce. But Abi? Abi's staring at me like I'm the center of the universe. Like I've somehow made his world bigger and brighter by simply allowing him within orbit.

I give Rinna one final, parting smile before blowing out my candles and shutting the closet door. Abi's waiting, and I have an apology to give. Once I'm outside, the warm sun feels fantastic against my skin. There's no one to be found in the parking lot or the surrounding grounds.

The Winawana Wagon House leaves much to be desired. In theory, it should be a lovely lakeside tourist destination. And perhaps it could have been, had our band of murderous bastards not taken up residence. The front office is cute enough on the outside. Festive blue vinyl siding. A gorgeous little flowerbed, packed with roses of every color; my doing, thank you very much. The office itself should be sectioned off with crime scene tape, though. Bullets line the ceiling, sending light fractals shimmering in like a tapestry of stars. The bullet holes are from Scotty, Brody, and occasionally the motel's manager, Barb. They take their card games very seriously, you see.

Around the office, four small cabins line the property. There's the one Abi, Fee, and I share, and we're right next to Scotty and Brody's cabin. Off toward the forest, there's a third cabin that's been repurposed as a weapon shed of sorts. Finally, there's Ol' Smokey, the final cabin on the lot. Inside, there's an old-timey electric chair Barb had lying in storage. It isn't plugged in, and I'm not sure if it's functional, but I'm always on my best behavior around her, just in case .

I shuffle over to Scotty's humble abode and poke my head in the door, but the room is empty. Well, not empty, exactly. Brody's latest target—a homophobic GOP congressional frontrunner—is tied up in the corner, wearing drag makeup, pink panties, and a ballgag with a rainbow-colored strap. The person who paid to have him killed requested he be shown the wonders of the rainbow first, so Brody and Scotty have been fucking each other for his viewing displeasure all week. The man locks eyes with me, disgust heavy in his expression, staring at the Abi's Boy shirt I'm wearing. Whatever slander he's spewing right now, the words are muffled by his mouth gag. I flip him off and mutter, "Hope you cry, hope you die," before exiting the cabin and heading across the lot.

Once I make it to the motel's lobby, I shove the door open with the strength of ten-thousand flaming queens. Inside, Scotty is sitting in Brody's lap at the table, delivering what I can only assume is the death blow in their silly little card game. His pink suitcase is resting snugly between the side of Brody's foot and the leg of the table. I'm tempted to turn and walk away so I don't get roped into Scotty's ridiculous tabletop RPG. Goddess knows he forced me to play it endlessly when we were still in Texas. Brody's hand is under Scotty's shirt, slowly stroking his stomach like he's a lap dog needing cuddles. And there, sure as sunrise, rests Abdulov Konstantin Kincaid, looking emotionally battered. His eyes are red like he's been crying, but knowing my gargantuan stalker, he's probably chalking it up to seasonal allergies.

I want to go to him and throw myself at his feet, begging for mercy. If he were alone, maybe I would. But I can't when Scotty is right here to witness. All these conflicting, confusing feelings I have for Abi—I'm not ready to share them yet. They're mine. So, rather than throw myself at him, I lift my hand and give him a nervous wave.

"Hey, Abi," I whisper, my cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment .

Thankfully, he's smiling. He's smiling so fucking widely, I almost can't stand it. "Good morning, little one."

I know apologies are in order, but right now, I just need to get to him, so he can fill me up. I can't stand how empty I feel without him. Slowly shuffling over, my eyes are locked with his, neither of us willing to look away. Everyone else has faded from existence, leaving only us in a poorly decorated motel lobby. I slide my thumbs into the waist of my joggers and slowly push them down. Once they're around my ankles, I kick them to the side, leaving myself almost bare before him. His eyes travel my body like a cartographer scoping out an uncharted land, taking stock of every twist and turn the landscape offers.

"Abi, can I . . ."

He gives a smile, shy and reserved, but filled with affection. "Come to me," he says, patting his thigh. "Come now, love."

With just a few short words, he's lifted any unease still swimming in my bloodstream. He isn't angry with me. There's no rage to be rained down on me like an endless shower. Just Abi Kincaid's kind eyes and welcoming arms. I hoist my leg up and sit on his lap, curling up against his chest like a touch-starved twink.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, closing my eyes and inhaling his woodsy cologne. "I don't hate you." His shoulder's right there, so I pucker my lips and give it a little kiss. "I didn't mean it. You know that, right?"

"I know," he says, but I'm not sure how much he believes me. His hand cradles the back of my head, pulling my face against his chest. "You were upset. I understand."

I shake my head, but his grip on me tightens, locking me in place. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Give me an out. You can't just let me off the hook so easily. I said some really hateful shit that I regret, and I deserve to be ..."

"Tell me," he demands. "What is it you believe you deserve?"

My breaths are coming heavy and harsh, and each one feels like ice in my lungs. Mental images of Benito's punishments flash through my head like the world's worst movie. Me, in the chair, watching him take them from me. Listening to his hateful, hurtful words. I fucking hated him for his misplaced hatred, but right now, after what I've done to Abi, I feel like it's what I deserve.

"To be punished," I whisper.

"Oh. No," he says, and his voice is filled with so much fucking affection, I don't know if I can stand it. "No, Tatum." He takes my face in his hand and lifts until our eyes meet. "I do not punish the people I love, I cherish them. I try to understand them. Yesterday, you were frightened, and you lashed out. I understood it even as it was happening. It will take far more than a slap to the face and a few cruel words to push me away."

His grip loosens, and I bury my face in his chest. With my ear against his heart, I can hear it thudding rapidly. Despite his racing heart, his body radiates cool, calm, and collectedness. He's a master at hiding his emotions. I find his hand and guide it to its home, resting his palm against my bare ass. A growl rattles in his throat, and his grip tightens around my cheek, his nails digging into my flesh.

"I feel empty," I admit. "Waking up without you—it didn't feel right."

"I know," he agrees, kissing the side of my face. His finger slides closer to my crack, running up and down the edge like he's knocking on a door and waiting to be allowed entry. "Is this still where I belong?" And then it happens. His fingertip taps my hole, and it takes all my strength to stifle a moan. "Is it time for me to come home to you?"

"Please," I say, breathlessly. "Please, come home."

It's all the invitation he needs. He brings his finger to my mouth and holds it there. It takes me a second to realize what he's asking for, but once it registers, I take him into my mouth, getting him nice and wet for me. When he's all lubed up, he lowers his finger to my crack and drags it across my hole. "Deep breath. Here it comes."

The moment he's inside, I feel more content than I ever have. He slides in, then out, then in again, repeating the move on an endless cycle. I don't want to enjoy it, but it's the thing I enjoy most in this world. Since meeting Abi, my ass has gotten more attention than it ever did with my exes.

"Ah, what the fuck, man? I don't want to see that shit," Brody says behind us, his voice filled with irritation. "It's one thing when the motherfucker's got a blanket on his lap, but his whole fucking asshole is out."

My cock twitches. Abi must feel it, because he chuckles softly into my ear. "Do not worry about him. You've got the most beautiful hole I've ever seen. It deserves to be on display."

"So," Scotty says, louder than the situation calls for. "If you're done molesting my biffle, we really need to talk about wedding stuff." Reluctantly, I tear myself away from Abi's chest and glance over my shoulder. Scotty arranges his playing cards neatly on the table, kissing the tip of his finger and pressing it against each of the character's faces when he's done. "Since we're leaving in a few days, we need to discuss sleeping arrangements."

"Sleeping arrangements?" I ask.

He nods. "Fee's already got her room booked at the bed-and-breakfast, but I was thinking Brody and I could take my old apartment."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "We've been away from Texas for half a year. I think the new tenants might take issue with a terroristic twink and his psycho boyfriend spending the week there."

Scotty rolls his eyes. "After Daddy killed my father and the agency stopped trying to hunt us down, Daddy decided to keep it for me, just in case something happens and we need to abandon all of you in a life-or-death situation. God, Tatum, I've explained this to you multiple times. Keep up, please. "

"This is quite literally the first I've heard of this."

He shakes his head. "You always do this. It's like the second his finger slides inside your butt, the rest of the world falls by the wayside. Next, you'll say you forgot about when I told you Daddy and I stole both of your licenses, bought me a pretty blond wig, and assumed your identities, a few weeks ago."

I blink at him. "What? Absolutely none of those words make sense in the slightest. What the hell are you talking about?"

He scowls, and Brody just chuckles beside him. "I told you that wasn't going to work. You're not going to be able to weasel your way out of it."

I turn and look at Abi who seems just as confused as me. "Do you know what the hell they're going on about?"

He shrugs. "I am at a loss."

Scotty sighs. "You can't be mad at me, okay? I was just treating it as a wedding rehearsal of sorts." When I turn around, I see a genuine look of fear on my friend's face. "Plus, it's for the best. I was only thinking of you."

"Don't lie," Brody warns. "What have I told you about lying, baby?"

"Not helpful, Daddy," Scotty says, sounding annoyed. "I'm not lying. It's what they need. They're never going to admit how they feel unless someone gives them a push, and I've never walked down an aisle before, so it was a win/win."

"You pushed, alright," Brody says, chuckling menacingly. "You practically shoved them over a cliff. Don't pretend you did it for any other reason than?—"

"Why must you correct me at every turn?" Scotty interrupts. "For God's sake, it's downright cruel at this point. You're supposed to be on my side."

"Would someone tell me what the fuck is going on?" I say, my voice rising with irritation. I refuse to allow Scotty to derail the topic just so he can have a one-sided war with his fiancé.

Like a shitty soap opera, Scotty covers his face with his hands and suddenly starts sobbing loudly, shaking his shoulders. I know Scotty like the back of my hand. I know the sound of upset in his voice. This isn't upset—it's a bartering chip. A last-ditch effort to skirt out of harm's way. Yeah, well, I'm not playing his game. My patience was already stick-thin when I walked into this hideous excuse for a front office, and after the unnecessary theatrics, it's now nonexistent.

"Your fake tears mean nothing to me, Scotty Levinson. Pull yourself together and tell me what you did so we can move on to the ‘ hope you cry, hope you die ' portion of the oncoming battle."

When Scotty finally uncovers his face his eyes are dryer than the Sahara, as expected. His shoulders are shaking, so he's clearly still trying to pull off the fearful deer-in-headlights act, but I'm not having it. Desperate times call for drastic measures. There, right in the center of the table, is Scotty's favorite card. It's one I bought him for his birthday. The Son of Starlight.

I quickly reach across the table and grab the card, holding it over my head. A small rush of pride washes over me as I see the panic in his eyes. Good. "Now, you're going to stop pretending to cry, and you're going to tell me what the fuck you've—" A gun cocks in the background, and when I tear my eyes away from Scotty, Brody's got a handgun aimed at my head. I've had enough of his idiotic threats, so I guess he's getting his share of my wrath as well. "No. Absolutely not. Put your gun away—I'm not doing this with you again." When Brody makes no move to holster his gun, I realize I'm going to need to deliver on my threat. Holding the card in front of my chest, I begin the slow process of ripping it right down the middle.

"No!" Scotty screams, jumping up from his place on Brody's lap. "Stop it, Tatum! That's mine!"

I stop tearing the card long enough to glare at him. "Then spit it out."

"Fine! Just put my card down," he pleads. "Please, Tater Tot?"

I roll my eyes and wedge the card between my hip and the waistband of my jockstrap, because I'm not getting rid of my only bargaining chip. With it securely tucked away, I hold my hand in front of me, offering him the metaphorical stage.

"So, you know I've been real scared about getting married, right?"

I nod. "Yeah. Pre-wedding jitters. I can't say I blame you, considering the homophobic prick you're marrying, but that's neither here nor there. What about it?"

"Well, I kind of leaned into my unhinged side and did something I shouldn't have. I wanted to see what it felt like before the big day. It was the day you and Kincaid went walking in the woods, three or four weeks ago. You remember. It was after I asked you to practice walking me down the aisle, and you said the only place you would be marching was into the wilderness so wolves could eat you, rather than listen to another word I said. Well, I was an emotional wreck, and you weren't there to calm me down, so I did what I had to do. I had to practice somehow, so that's the way I did it. Honestly, maybe I'm the one who should be angry, right now. I was verging on a nervous breakdown, and you did nothing to ease the tension. Fucking rude, Tatum."

"I baked you pot brownies last week," I remind him. "We had a girl's night and everything. I braided your fucking hair, Scotty. Do you know how hard it is to braid a near buzzcut?"

"Okay, and ...? You think braiding my hair is going to ease my fear? Some friend you are. This is your fault, you know. If you'd shown an ounce of compassion, Brody and I wouldn't have been forced to assume your identities and get a marriage license on your behalf, just so I could practice walking toward the Justice of the Peace. It wasn't even good practice. The aisle was less than three feet long," he says, flicking his finger back and forth between myself and Abi. "You forced my hand, so if you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at yourself." He narrows his eyes at me. "Jerk."

"I don't know what the hell your problem is, but you can take that tone out of your voice?— "

Wait.

Did he just say . . .

"You did what?!" Abi's shouts. He stands up from the chair bringing me along for the ride. I've never heard him this angry before, and knowing he's just as upset as me makes my heart feel like it's going to burst through my chest.

Scotty can't be serious. There's no way he's done what he's admitting to. It makes absolutely no sense.

"This can't be real," I say, though I'm mostly talking to myself.

"Tell me this is a joke." Abi's voice is fierce and full of venom. "Tell me you were simply pulling our legs and all will be forgiven. Say it, Scotty. Say it now."

Scotty rushes behind Brody, using the mountain of a man as a human shield. "Tell him he can't yell at me, Daddy. I don't like it. Makes me scared."

"I'm going to do a lot more than yell at you," Abi says, taking a step forward.

There's a loud pop, and when I look down, I see a smoking gun in Brody's hand. He's fired a warning shot into the floorboards, and he's got an animalistic, almost feral expression on his face. "Watch that tone when you're talking to my boy. He fucked up, but there's no reason to scare him like this."

" He fucked up?" I manage, finally finding my voice. "By the looks of it, you went right along with it."

Brody casually shrugs and stuffs the gun into his jeans. "I don't fuckin' like you, dude. I don't give a fuck if you live or die. Scotty seems to be enamored with you for some reason, though, so I did him a solid. If you raise your voice with either of us again, I'll slit your fuckin' throat."

Abi's finger twitches inside me, striking my prostate and making me moan. "Brody?" When I look at him, he doesn't seem confused anymore, just hurt. "How could you?"

For the first time since I've known him, I see the smallest trace of remorse on Brody's face. The color has drained from his cheeks, he's breathing a little faster, and there's sweat beading against his brow.

"I'm sorry, bro. I just wanted to make Freakshow happy. He's so fucking scared of walking down the aisle." He leans down and kisses Scotty's forehead. "My boy was scared, and I did the only thing I could think of to make him feel better."

"You didn't need a forged marriage license for that!" I shout, flabbergasted by this turn of events. Scotty can be a bit flighty, but this seems extreme, even for him. "You could have had a rehearsal in the goddessdamned parking lot, for fuck's sake." The room goes silent, and for the briefest of moments, I believe Scotty might apologize.

"You love him," Scotty finally says. When I open my eyes, I realize he's talking to Abi. "You love him just as much as I love Daddy. I thought it might finally give you both the push you need. I just want all of us to be one big happy family. Now you're married, and Tatum might not run anymore. He might finally let go of his stupid boyfriends and let himself be happy."

"Married," I whisper, trying to make sense of the word. I'm married to Abi Kincaid. On paper, at least. Or maybe officially too? Scotty mentioned a Justice of the Peace, but I'm praying it was simply a janitor he mistook for a city employee. Every muscle in my body has gone rogue, and all I can do is cling to Abi in hopes he'll make it better.

"Leave us. I wish to speak with him privately."

"But—" Scotty begins before being cut off.

"Nyet," Abi snaps. "Out. Both of you."

The bell above the door chimes, and I realize every ounce of emotion I've been hiding is about to spill over. I'm about to break, and I can't stop the cracks from spreading. This is terrifying. All of it.

"I've got you, baby," he whispers in my ear.

"Daddy," I whisper, hating myself for letting the word slip out. It's a word I know he wants me to use more often, but it feels dirty. Wrong. Speaking it aloud is the pinnacle of unhinged behavior, and I know it's an admission that shifts my role from complacent captive to willing participant, but I can't help it. I have to say it. So, I say it again. "Daddy, I can't ..."

"Do not worry. I'm here, Tatum. It is just you and me."

And then it happens. I snap. I shatter. Every pent-up emotion breaks through my resistance, and all I can do is whine and whimper as he strokes my back. How the fuck am I supposed to explain any of this to my parents? To Austin. To the Bens. We might not be together anymore, but their opinions matter to me. I'm going to have to introduce Abi as my husband. Or my fiancé?

Once my tears finally stop, I pull away and stare at Abi. His expression is vacant. There's no trace of emotion on his face, which sucks, because I can't gauge where we stand right now.

"What are we going to do?" I finally ask. "We're leaving in less than a week."

His brows are knitted together in the center of his forehead, and they stay that way as he studies me. "How do you wish to handle it?"

I close my eyes and attempt a groan, but all that escapes me is another sob. "I don't fucking know! That's why I'm asking. You're supposed to be the one who takes charge. Do something. Please!"

He walks us back to the chair and takes a seat, sighing once we're settled. I reach for his hand and guide him to my ass, needing his finger to center me. It slips in with little effort, and the moment it does, a bit of the worry fades, and I'm able to focus on him.

"What would you have me do, Tatum? Just tell me how you want to handle it, and I will."

What I want is to turn Scotty in for marriage license fraud—if that's even a thing—but that would only lead to a prison sentence, and my shitty excuse for a biffle wouldn't survive a day in jail. He'd be turned out within seconds of entering .

"Do we have to get a divorce?" I ask. "Or an annulment? I don't know what the next step to ending a marriage even is."

He's chewing on his cheek as his big brown eyes stare into mine. After a pause, he clears his throat and asks, "You wish to end the marriage?"

"Of course I want to end it. We're not even dating."

"I know," he says, sounding defeated. There was fear on his face before, but there was also a small morsel of something that looked a lot like hope. I've taken that away. While I feel guilty for doing so, what other option do I have? I can't just stay married to my kidnapper. That's problematic on every possible level.

"Isn't that what you want?" I ask, afraid to hear the answer, because I'm pretty sure he'd keep me as his husband forever, if I were to allow it. I bring my hand to his face, brushing my thumb against his cheekbone. "What do you want, Abi?"

"I want you to be happy." He leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. "If that means we end the marriage, then we end the marriage." He clears his throat and looks away. "I've always known I'd lose you eventually."

"You're not losing me." I attempt to reassure him, but I'm not sure how much I believe the words. Every muscle in my body is screaming for me to run-run-run.

He shakes his head. "When we return home, you will choose to stay. Your wish is to finally be rid of me. This is your chance."

I bite my lip, unable to speak. He's right. Given the choice, at this very moment, I want to run. I want to hole myself away from him until both he and this unrequested round of nuptial bliss is just a distant memory.

"We have to fix this. I can't be married to you. It crosses every boundary line of rational behavior."

"The night we met, you cracked my rib with a rolling pin, ejaculated on my stomach, and Fiona drugged you. We're hardly a paragon of rational behavior."

"I know," I say. "But this is too much, even for us. "

He stares into my eyes, not speaking, not moving aside from the finger prodding my hole. "When we get back to Washington—if you choose to return with me—we'll sort everything as soon as we're settled."

I close my eyes and exhale shakily. "Okay. Yeah. We'll sort it when we're home. Well, if I come home."

His finger is easing in and out, keeping me steady. It twists and turns along the way, occasionally striking my prostate, and I'm pretty sure he's doing it on purpose. "We'll need to pack."

"We've got a few days." I stare at him, cupping his cheek, not wanting this moment to end. When we go back to our cabin, he'll need both hands to pack his belongings. I'm not ready to lose this sense of fullness yet. "Just a little longer?"

He leans back in the chair and sighs. "Tatum." He sounds exhausted. I know I've put him through the ringer, and all I want to do is make this easier on him. I don't know how to tell him I'm not giving up on whatever this thing we're doing is, but I'm just so fucking scared, I can't see straight. He's my kidnapper. My stalker. The man is my fucking home. I want to tell him. Really, I do. I just don't want to give him false hope.

So, when those words won't come, I give him the best ones I can find. "Will you make me come?" I whisper.

His eyes flicker up to meet mine. "Will you allow me to?"

I give him the only thing I can. A nod. And, even though the words are just as ridiculous as the situation at hand, I attempt a joke to lighten the mood. "Call it our honeymoon."

He smiles. Not a big one, but it's there, just for me. "Anything for you."

His finger twitches inside me, making my entire body shudder. It's like he's testing the waters to see how sincere my offer is. I roll my hips to guide him on his journey, and it must be all the permission he needs. His index finger slides out, then slowly back in, traveling at a snail's pace. As he fucks me with his finger, he uses his thumb to trace a crescent moon shape around my rim. The action makes me quiver, and I press my forehead even firmer against his.

"Kiss my neck, little one," he says. He rarely asks anything of me, and it's such a simple request, I don't want to deny him this. Reluctantly, I pull my forehead away from his, missing the warmth of his body heat. I bring my lips to the crook of his neck and press a chaste kiss against his skin.

The moment I hear him whimper, logic and rational behavior flies out the window. That one whimper is the most desperate sound I've ever heard—like his entire future rests on what I do next. As he strikes my prostate forcefully, I let out a guttural moan, and I give in. Opening my mouth, I dig my teeth into his skin and suck.

"Oh, my fucking God," he moans, sounding so goddamn feral it makes my cock leak through my jock. I keep sucking, wanting to hear more of the sound. Wanting to know what other sounds he makes when he's lost in pleasure. I've never purposefully done anything to sexually gratify Abi, but I'm pretty sure if he pulled his dick out of his pants and demanded I swallow, I'd do it without question. I kind of want to do it, anyway. "Fuck, baby. Yeah. Keep doing that." His fingertip tickles my hot-button and I jolt forward in his lap, drunk on the flavor of his flesh. It's like strawberry soap and woodsy cologne. Overpowering. All-encompassing.

I wrap my hand around the wrist he's using to hold me against him and guide it lower, not missing the cracked sounds he makes when his skin connects with the fabric of my jock. It takes everything in me to pry my lips away from him, and when I do, I realize just how hard I've been feasting on his neck. His skin's gone purple, and there are small indentations where my teeth just were. There's even a small drop of blood in one of the craters. Looking into his eyes, I pull his hand closer and hold it against my throbbing cock.

"Tatum," he says, raw with emotion .

"Yeah," I say, feeling light and breathless. "Make me come, Daddy."

The second the words are out, it's like a bomb's gone off between us. He wraps his fingers around my cloth-covered cock and pumps me slowly. This one act—this single moment we're sharing together—feels truer than any sexual experience that's come before. His touch feels like fate. Inevitability. Motherfucking destiny.

"Does that feel good, Pretty Baby?"

I bite my cheek and nod, thrusting against his hand. "So good. Jesus. It's like I'm fucking a vise." My words are like kindling to his fire, and he's working faster than before. I feel my balls tighten, not sure how he's taken me to the edge so fast. Embarrassingly fast, to be honest. I'm a little worried he's going to think I'm a one-pump chump.

"Do I get to do this now?" he asks, teasing the head with his thumb. "Will you allow me to fuck you with one hand while I stroke your cock with the other?" Holy shit. Dirty talk through the filter of a Russian accent has no right sounding as sexy as Abi does right now. It's like he's fucking me with his voice. "Tell me you'll let me do this again."

"Yeah," I manage to say even though my head is filled with a pleasurable fog. "You can." I slam my lips on his neck again, mumbling incoherently against his skin. "Any time."

"Every day?" he asks, but it doesn't seem like he's expecting an answer, because he's finger-fucking my hole with abandon now. "Every fucking day, Tatum. I'll wake you up like this. Would you like that?"

"Please," I whisper. My dick is so hard it could cut glass, and I've never needed to come more in my life. "Abi." The only thing that matters in this world is the man currently holding me in his arms. My kidnapper. My one-way ticket to damnation. My alleged husband.

Sweet merciful Goddess, I'm close. His fingers are plundering my entrance with abandon now. He pulls away but I chase after him, wanting to bury my face in his neck.

"Look at me," he commands. I stare at him hazily, enthralled by the expression on his face. There are trace amounts of fear hidden away, but for the most part, he just looks so fucking happy. Content. Like this is what he's been waiting for all his life. "You're mine now. To have." He twists his fingers inside me, pulling a moan out of me by sheer force and determination. "To hold." Oh, fuck. Is he ...? He can't be serious. He's reciting vows? "To worship, Tatum St. James." His lips slam against mine, cementing our bond. My body feels like fire. The way he holds my pleasure above everything else—social decorum included—makes me feel like I'm the most important man in the world. And maybe I am. To him, at least. "In sickness. In health."

"Oh, Goddess, Abi. Please. I need ..."

"To love. Because I do. I love you, Tatum. I know you've asked me not to say it, but I cannot lie to you, I won't."

"I know," I say, nodding as I fuck his hand. "It's okay." The fabric that's hiding me from him feels like an abomination. It has no right keeping us apart. I open my mouth to tell him to rip the motherfuckers off me, but all that escapes is another moan, and the word " fu-u-uck " in a voice I don't even recognize.

"Til death." He strikes my prostate again, and I feel the fabric of my jock dampen. I'm not sure if I've come, or if I'm just pouring pre-cum like tap water. I've never felt this hard in my life. "Til death, baby. Right?"

"I'm gonna come," I moan into his mouth. "Abi, I'm gonna—I'm about to ..." I clamp down on my bottom lip, ignoring the way it stings when my teeth pierce flesh. I like the burn. I fucking live for it.

"I do," he barks, and all I can do is nod, unsure what he's asking of me. "‘I do.' Say it."

"Oh, fuck," I groan. My cock twitches one final time and then I erupt, drenching the fabric of my jock as I scream, "I do," at the top of my lungs. Every muscle in my body spasms as the orgasm overtakes me. It's like the room's gone supernova, imploding and sucking in every trace of life until the only things left are our racing hearts. "I do. Oh, Goddess, Abi. Yes!"

"So fucking beautiful," he rasps into my ear as one hand cups my bulge like he's holding on for dear life. I'm a shaky mess of a man at the moment, and I can barely see straight after the world-shattering orgasm he's just given me. I dip my finger beneath the fabric and collect some of my load for him. When my hand is out of my jock and heading his way, his eyes are wide.

"Here," I say. "Made it special. Just for you."

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. "No. Last night, you said?—"

"Last night, I was an asshole." Inching closer, I kiss the tip of his nose, because it's there and it's adorable. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Please, forgive me."

A smile quirks in the corners of his mouth. "Forgiven."

"Just like that?"

He chuckles. "Of course, just like that. Did you expect me to hold it against you for days?"

"For weeks. Months, maybe."

Rather than respond, he takes me by the wrist and brings my hand toward him, eyes closed, mouth open and ready for me. He's letting me make the final trek of the journey as if he's worried I'll change my mind. I might not be any closer to figuring out what the hell we're going to do about this impromptu marriage situation, but I'm close enough to his mouth to give him something to appreciate. His tongue is sticking out, and I place my finger on top, my body shaking when he wraps his tongue around the tip. He moans like a dog in heat, and it sends shockwaves through me.

"Fuck, Tatum."

"Is it okay?" I ask, my cheeks scalding. "I don't taste bad, do I? Nito said it tastes like?—"

"Tatum," he barks, startling me. "Nyet to Nito. He is an asshole, and when we return to Texas, he will be lucky to walk away with his life."

"You don't have to?—"

Abi shakes his head insistently. "No one hurts you. We are going to destroy his entire world until all he has left are his demons." Abi licks a stripe of cum from my palm and moans. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around."

He licks every drop of cum from my hand, and the look of appreciation on his face feels impossible. I've never had anyone treat my load like a four-course meal, but that's exactly how he makes it seem. I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to taste him. Just the thought is enough to send blood pumping in the right direction.

I waggle my eyebrows at him, feeling playful. "Are you ready for round two?"