Chapter 10

H is admission has my stomach dropping out and my breaths shallow. His hands on mine feel like a command even though he’s ordered nothing of me. They say be still, and I won’t pounce.

My heart shouldn’t be beating so fast, and I shouldn’t have giddy energy in my veins at him saying I affect him. It’s fucked up. Everything is fucked up.

Even as I tell myself it’s just my brain and body’s way of trying to survive, I know I’m lying to myself that I’m ignoring all the signs that I’m attracted to my kidnapper.

The same man who ran me off the fucking road and turned me into a puppet.

“Go, sit,” he says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “I’ll make your plate since you so generously cooked for us.”

Tomorrow is Christmas day, and it’s the day he’s promised will be my end .

No one has come for me, and I don’t know if that means no one can find me or that he’s blocking them somehow. Did Mom try to find me, and the town somehow intervened?

I wonder if I’ll ever know. Or if I’ll go to his graveyard blissfully unaware of how many people were involved in the search for me.

I go to the table and sit next to his chair. I’d already set the table except for plates, and I bounce my knee as my back is turned to Cain, nerves gobbling up the idea he could be getting a knife right now, preparing to fillet me instead of letting me have my last meal.

I tried to get into his phone, but it was fingerprint-protected. I found it beneath his pillow in his room and saw the date and time, which oriented me a little bit. Knowing that it was Christmas Eve, four in the afternoon, made me feel more normal, so while he napped, I cooked a Christmas Eve meal.

I’m not a great cook, but I did what I could. I’d prepared roasted brussel sprouts I found in the fridge, some chicken breasts with butter and lemon pepper, and made rice, which I buttered to perfection before I was startled.

Cain comes to my right side, sliding my plate in front of me as he sits next to me with his own.

He sits back, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Go on, puppet. Eat.”

He’s testing me. He made the plates to ensure I hadn’t done anything to the food, and he’s going to watch me eat it to know if it’s been tampered with.

I shake my head, pulling my chair closer as I pick up my knife and fork and dig in.

“Oh, man. I was worried the chicken would dry out, but it’s so good,” I say, grabbing my glass of water and gulping some down before forking some rice into my mouth and following it with a Brussels sprout.

After about five minutes, he seems appeased and begins eating his food, all while eyeing me warily at the gesture.

It’s sad, really.

He’s a beautiful specimen of a man and a surgeon to boot. Women must fawn over him all the time, yet he seems as if no one’s ever cooked him a meal before.

“This is very good, puppet, I’ll admit.”

I smile, his praise going straight through my soul and coddling it.

I shake my head at myself inwardly.

What is the matter with you?

I’m long past the stage where I’ve gotten too complacent with my kidnapper and moving on to the stage where I’ve accepted my fate and am readying for the end.

“So, tomorrow, how will you…” I clear my throat, grabbing my water again. “You know, how will you do it? It won’t be another chase through the woods, will it?”

He sits back, using his napkin to dab at his lips. “You don’t want me to chase you, puppet?”

“No. I mean, while it’s thrilling and all, I think I’d much rather go out with a moan on my lips. Fuck me until the end, don’t let me see it coming.”

At this, he startles and sits up rigidly in his chair. It’s like he doesn’t like the idea, which frightens me.

I know his full name and where he lives; it wouldn’t be hard to find out where he works. He can’t let me go. So, if he doesn’t kill me, what else would he do with me?

I can’t be his puppet forever.

Even though I know the thought to be accurate, my stomach flips at the idea of being here for the rest of my life.

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he admits, returning to his food, but this time just pushing it around with his fork.

“What? But it’s tomorrow.”

“I’m aware it’s tomorrow.” His tone leaves me no room to respond, so I shift in my chair and shove chicken into my mouth as I consider a new approach.

“Where did you go after your parents’ murder?” I ask him for small talk, even if it’s dark.

“Going to analyze me, puppet?”

I sigh. “No. Just trying to know you better.”

“I was bounced around through the foster care system until a couple in Duhhaven adopted me. The man was a doctor, and his wife was a nurse. They raised me from the age of twelve on.”

“Raised? They’re dead?”

He nods. “He died of old age, and she mourned herself to death. Died nearly a year to the day after. It was awful to watch.”

“I bet it was. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

The way that I’m connecting with a serial killer is worrying me. Because seeing him as anything more than what he is is insane. Right?

My inner banter isn’t helping my appetite, and now I’m pushing my food around on the plate.

“Is your father dead?” he asks me, batting the ball back on my side of the court.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Well, I got into your car the day after the crash. The only missed calls you had were from your mother.”

I nod. “I don’t know my father. She would never tell me who he was. Not even his name.”

Cain thinks about that for a moment and sits back. “I wonder why.”

His curiosity over a problem I’ve riddled over my entire life is endearing. Too much so.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Do you have anything a bit more…” I lift my glass and swirl my water around, hoping he’ll find some alcohol he has squirreled away somewhere for me to have.

For a captive, I think I’ve behaved well enough to earn some. After all, he had whiskey the other night.

He smirks, tossing his napkin onto the table as he moves into the living room. I hear keys rattle and a lock being turned. It’s likely the cabinet beside the front door. I tried to open it the first time I perused this place and couldn’t gain entrance.

He returns with a bottle of fancy red wine with French writing on the label and grabs me a glass from the kitchen. Filling it halfway, he then sits and recorks the wine.

I close my eyes as the first sip warms my belly. “Mm, thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” he answers, and it’s that moment when I see through the facade of the killer I’ve been living with and get a glimpse at the man he hides behind all year.

“Did you always want to become a surgeon?” I ask, wine warming my belly on contact. I go back to eating now that my nerves are steadier.

He cuts into his chicken with precision, which I’m in awe and a little afraid of. “No. But my adoptive father was adamant I become something that allowed me the life I deserved. He always said I went through the rough times in my childhood, and I should strive to live a colorful and vibrant life beyond it.”

For a moment, I forget I’m sitting beside a murderer and nod in agreement as if we’re two old friends sitting down to a meal together to catch up.

Then I grab my wine, and my piercings sting as my strings pull too tight, and I’m reminded of who I am to this man.

His prey.

I’m in a constant war with myself and my thoughts. Don’t even get me started on the way he makes me feel sexually. I’m certain I’ve crossed some line of mortality God set in the sand millions of years ago. At least twice.

“That’s a nice way of putting it, though,” I answer, trying to stay out of my head and all its drama.

Part of me wants to be present for my last days on earth. Live it to the fullest.

I finish my wine, feeling the buzz beneath my skin as I ask for another glass. He fills it halfway once more.

“Last glass, puppet. I don’t want you hurting yourself on your strings if you get too drunk.”

I nod, licking my lips as I put them to the rim of the wineglass again, looking at him through the glass as I tip it.

I can’t help how he makes me feel, and I’m honestly sick of fighting it, but my brain won’t let me forget who he is and how I got here.

Not even if I tried.

We discussed a few more things, like where I live and where I go to school. He tells me where he went to school and about the first girl he kidnapped.

Once the meal is cleaned off the table and I’m thoroughly buzzed, he tells me he’ll clean the kitchen and helps me to the room.

When he walks back to the kitchen, I have the distinct feeling I was just on a date with a serial killer, even though that wasn’t the intent I set out with when I decided to cook .

I shake away from the thought, flick the lights off, and get into bed.

As I sink into the mattress, I try to conjure dreams that keep me company as I rest—made-up scenarios full of happiness and cheer.

But all my brain chooses to do is remember his fist grinding against my inner walls, waking me a few times as my core throbs and my body writhes of its own volition.

Heat is what wakes me.

It’s so hot.

I try to toss the covers off and find they won’t move.

I whimper, rolling over, well, trying to. There’s a wall behind me.

Cain snores, and I realize he’s in bed with me. Not only that but his leg and arm are thrown over me lazily as he sleeps.

He’s cuddling me.

What the fuck?

If I’m honest, his identity directly contrasts what’s happening and makes it scarier.

I’m in the arms of a man who murders women for no other reason than he hates Christmas because of what happened to him as a boy and part of me wants to snuggle back into him and go back to sleep .

I need to get the fuck away from him.

But even though I think that and know that, my heady eyes close again.

Until he moves.

He grinds into my ass, moaning in his sleep, and it sets my body on fire.

Well, there’s no going back to sleep now.

This is where my dilemma lies.

I know I need to escape, but how can I when he makes me feel like this? When his touch makes me feel like I’m so fucking alive, even though I’m on the brink of death.

“Grace,” he whispers, nibbling the shell of my earlobe.

“Mm,” I answer, realizing I’ve grabbed onto his ass and pressed further into his rock-hard dick.

“I’m going to unbind your strings, darling girl. But if you run…”

“I’m not going to run,” I admit, and once I realize it’s the god’s honest truth, my eyes fly wide as he takes my strings off my tethers.

I’m not going to run.