Page 22 of Cry, Little Dove

That’s the simple part. Money ain’t an issue for me at this point in my life, but something is still bothering me. Or rather, somebody.

That guy from the picture.

He gives off the same vibes as those small-time criminals I dealt with when I first got into the organ trade. The kind that thought they could cheat me and were rewarded with a bullet to the head.

I go back through Erica’s texts. There are a few more from other work colleagues, talking restaurant business. Then finally “Nate” with a heart next to it.

“Got you, asshole!” I slap my thigh.

The thread of texts with Nate is long and I scroll up to earlier messages to find out more information. I read about cute date nights planned by her to which he unenthusiastically agreed. Lots of rants from him, complaining about one piece of shit friend or another. He never asked about her. Not once.

Typical scumbag behavior.

My heart drops when I get to the latest texts. They’re all from her. All left on sent. No replies.

The more I read, the harder my pulse races. My free hand balls into a fist, shaking with the urge to beat this Nate to a fuckin’ pulp and make him eat through a straw for the rest of his short life.

I jump up. Rage clouds my vision like a red haze as I rush to my office and drop into the chair behind the desk, leaving Erica’s phone on top.

He stole from her. He destroyed her life.

I slam a palm onto the table before tapping on her contacts, scrolling through the names until I find him. It must be an old address or Erica would’ve dropped by instead of pleading with him via text, but it’s good enough. A starting point.

I grab my keys from my pocket and unlock the bottom drawer of the desk to take out a sleek black laptop. I know better than to use the unprotected desktop PC with all my data on it to surf the dark web.

A slow smirk curves my lips.

Nobody except me gets away with hurting my little dove.

“I’m fuckin’ coming for you, Nate.”

Aches pulse across my body like I passed out in shattered glass. The bend of my arm hurts. The side of my hip. My throat. My nipples. A dull pain and slight burn throb in my pussy and ass.

On the other hand, I can’t remember the last time I was this comfortable.

Fluffy softness covers me like clouds, and something tight and firm is wrapped around me, making me feel safe. A slow thudding vibrates from beneath me, its steady rhythm calming me. The fresh scent of fabric softener permeates my nose…andthe smell of tobacco and woodsy cologne.

Oh god.

The feeling of safety goes up in smoke.

I open my eyes and stare right into Cain’s sleeping face barely an inch from mine. I’m curled up on his fucking chest like we’re lovers and his arms are wrapped around me.

The kidnapping. The operating theater.

Right, I’m living my own, personal nightmare. But how did I end up in a king-sized bed?

I press my palms weakly against his shoulder. “Let me go, asshole!” I croak, my tongue dry and my throat rough.

His lids flutter open, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. The opposite. With a lazy smirk, he holds me even tighter. “Good mornin’, darlin’,” he mumbles, his accent thicker and his voice raspy from sleep. He lifts his head and presses his soft lips to mine.

Holy shit, the audacity of this guy!

My heart stumbles as I twist and break the kiss.

I vividly remember the most intense orgasm I ever had happening on his operating table, probably multiple in one go. The memories are like a spike of heated metal piercing my brain. His cock in my throat and in my pussy. Then in my ass. The goddamn sounding rod in—

Didn’t he say he’d kill me if I came?

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