Page 13 of Bought By Santa

I’m Nicklas Knight. I get what I want, and I want this hellcat to carry my heir.

Chapter 6

The Breeder

My eyes snap open, and my heart slams against my chest with the force of a runaway train. I’m not in my cramped studio, nor am I curled up on the crumb-infested sofa that doubles as my bed more often than not. No, this is some sort of… palace?

Opulence drips from every corner of the room—the kind you see in those period dramas Willow loves to devour, her wide eyes reflecting the light of impossible dreams. Silk sheets caress myskin, cool and smooth like the quiet whisper of a promise. Plush pillows cradle my head, but their softness feels like a mockery when I tug at my wrists and find them bound to the bed’s ornate posts.

I twist as much as possible, managing to lower the sheet covering me. As I look down at my body, I kind of wish I hadn’t bothered because I’m no longer wearing yesterday’s dress. I’m wearing a man’s button-up shirt. Anger and humiliation flare within me at the thought of someone undressing and dressing me while I wasn’t conscious.

“What the hell?” My voice is a snarl that echoes off the high walls. The furniture around me is straight out of a fairytale—a wardrobe that could house a thousand gowns, a vanity with a mirror so large it could reflect all of my failures.

I strain against the restraints, my body twisting, seeking freedom. The silk rope bites into my skin, a reminder of the direness of my situation. I can’t afford to be here—literally. This isn’t part of the plan. The plan is to find a rich husband, someone who’ll look past my façade and shower Willow and me with security, not… whatever twisted scenario this is.

My mind races back to the night before, the lavish club where I’d hoped to snag a wealthy bachelor with my tight dress and practiced smile. But now? Now I’m caught in a web, and I don’t even know where the spider is.

My breath comes in shallow gasps as I take in the sheer size of the room again, the height of the ceiling that makes me feel small and insignificant. Despite the roaring fireplace, I feel cold, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“You’re finally awake.”

His voice cuts through the silence, low and commanding, startling me. Even without seeing him, I know he’s one of the men from last night, and with my luck—or lack thereof—he’s probably the one I watched shoot someone in cold blood.

I can feel his presence loom closer, though I refuse to show the fear clawing at my insides. Instead, I lift my chin defiantly, meeting the shadowed gaze of the man still wearing the Santa hat and beard.

“I need the bathroom,” I whine as I twist like a contortionist on the bed.

Unable to look away, I follow him with my eyes as he moves over to me and undoes the restraints. Before I can thank him, he fists my hair, pulling me up so I’m seated. “Don’t try anything,” he warns, his tone low and menacing.

“I won’t,” I whimper as he intensifies his brutal hold on my hair.

“Good,” he clips. Then he roughly pulls me to my feet, shoving me toward the adjoining bathroom.

When I try to close the door, he laughs darkly and shakes his head. “You’re not going to watch me pee,” I hiss, crossing my arms over my chest. Shit, even my bra is gone. What did this man do to me while I was sleeping? No, wait… I wasn’t sleeping. He fucking choked me until I became unconscious. Thoughts of me trying to fight him off come rushing back, almost overriding my need to pee. Almost.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to leave you alone, Hellcat. Either you pee with the door open, or you can piss yourself.”

The pressure on my bladder intensifies, and I can see he’s not going to budge. Bowing my head in shame, I walk over to the toilet and sit down. Hiding my face in my hair, I peek at him. At least he has the decency to look away while I do my business.

As soon as I’m done, I wash my hands and splash some cold water on my face. I avert my gaze from the mirror, not wanting to know what I look like. Superficial as it is, I can’t feel good or strong if I don’t look the part. And right now, I know I have to be looking like a mess.

Once I switch off the water and dry my hands on a towel that’s so soft I want to run it across my skin, the guy grabs my arm and forces me back to the bed. This time, he doesn’t bother to tie me up.

“Are you going to let me go?” I ask, hopeful.

“Shh. We have much to discuss, Carolina,” he coos, and I flinch at the way he casually uses my name, a perverse intimacy in a situation devoid of any warmth.

I want to ask him how he knows my name, but the stubborn part of me refuses to acknowledge that. The room is silent except for the crackling of the fireplace, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the walls. I should be screaming, fighting tooth and nail, but instead, I’m eerily calm, survival instincts kicking in. I need to be smart about this.

“Like what?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.

The man rubs the back of his neck. “Like your finances,” he says. He paces at the foot of the bed, his presence large and threatening even while wearing the ridiculous Santa hat and beard.

“There’s not much to talk about,” I admit scornfully.

He chuckles. “New York is expensive, isn’t it, Carolina?” He pauses, his tone laced with mockery. “Especially when you’re paying for your sister’s facility.”

I freeze, every muscle tensing. How does he know about my desperation? The money for Willow’s care? The air thickens around me, choking me. I’m an open book to him; my carefully crafted façade crumbles. “What do you want?” I croak.

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