Chapter 5 The Captive

I give him a three-second head start before I shove myself up and follow.

“Hey!” I shout. “You don’t get to just walk away from me.”

Thad doesn’t stop. His long legs eat up the distance, and I have to practically jog to keep up with him. The carpet swallows the sound of my bare feet while his shoes click against the hardwood where it peeks through.

“I want answers,” I demand. “Real ones. Not ‘you’ll understand soon’ or ‘when you’re stronger.’ I want to know what the hell is happening to me.”

He stops so suddenly that I almost slam into his back. When he turns around, those grey eyes pin me in place.

“You’re not ready.”

“That’s not your call.”

“It is, actually.” He gestures at the hallway around us. “This is my home. You’re my responsibility now.”

“I’m not anyone’s responsibility. I’m a grown woman who woke up in a strange place with no memory of how she got here, and you’re treating me like a child.”

“You broke a man’s ribs this morning,” he reminds me. “You shattered a mirror with your bare hands. You burned in the sun and healed within minutes.” He takes a step closer, and I force myself not to back away. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, then it’s because you are not equipped to handle the full truth right now.”

“Then give me part of it.”

He works his jaw, and I watch the muscle move under his skin and try not to notice how close he’s standing. How good he smells, like sandalwood and something darker underneath.

“You need rest,” he finally states. “We’ll talk another time.”

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it.” He nods toward a door at the end of the hall. “That’s your room. Everything you need is inside. Don’t try to leave. My staff has orders to stop you if you attempt to go outside again.”

“So I’m a prisoner.”

“You’re a guest who doesn’t yet understand the danger she poses to herself. Get some sleep, Thelma.”

Then he walks away again, and this time, I don’t follow.

I stand in the hallway until his footsteps fade to nothing. Then I push open the door to my so-called room and step inside.

It’s beautiful. Four-poster bed with silk sheets, an attached bathroom with a claw-foot tub, and clothes hanging in the closet that look like they might actually fit me. I don’t care about any of it.

As I pace the length of the room, my body won’t calm down. Every sensation is amplified—the carpet under my feet, the fabric brushing against the inside of my thighs, even my own pulse thundering in my ears.

I strip off the clothes I woke up in and head for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink shows me nothing—just the wall behind me and the edge of the doorframe. I’m getting used to that particular horror.

The shower has perfect water pressure. I step under the spray and let it pound against my shoulders, trying to wash away the fear and confusion.

It doesn’t work.

What happens is worse.

Because standing here with hot water running down my body, all I can think about is him. Thad. The way he looked at me when I drank that glass of whatever-it-was. The way his fingers brushed my knuckles when he took it from me. The way he stood so close I could count the flecks of silver in his grey eyes.

Heat pools low in my belly, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I press my palm flat against the tile and close my eyes.

This is wrong. This is so wrong. I don’t even know this man. He’s keeping me prisoner in his house, refusing to answer my questions, and all I can think about is what his hands would feel like on my skin.

My free hand drifts down without my permission. Over my stomach. Lower.

I think about the way he said my name. The way his accent wrapped around the syllables like he was tasting them. I think about his shoulders in that expensive suit, the breadth of them, how small I’d feel pressed against his chest.

My fingers find my clit, and I gasp.

The pleasure is immediate and overwhelming. Everything is heightened—every touch magnified, every sensation doubled. I circle my fingers and think about Thad’s mouth. His hands. The way he moves like he owns every room he enters.

I imagine him here with me, pressing me against the tile. His cool fingers replacing mine, sliding through my wetness, pushing inside me while his mouth trails down my neck.

My hips rock against my hand. The pressure builds fast, so fast it’s almost frightening. I’ve touched myself plenty of times before, but never like this. Never with my entire body vibrating and my blood singing and every nerve screaming for more.

I come with a cry that echoes off the bathroom walls. My knees buckle, and I have to brace myself against the tile to keep from collapsing. The orgasm rips through me, and I ride out the waves with my eyes squeezed shut and his name on my lips.

When it finally passes, I’m shaking.

I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel. My reflection isn’t there to judge me, which is probably for the best.

“Get a grip, Thelma,” I whisper to the empty room. “He’s your captor. Not your fantasy.”

But my body doesn’t seem to know the difference anymore.

I crawl into the silk sheets and stare at the ceiling. Something is very, very wrong with me.

And I’m starting to think Thad Samford knows exactly what it is.