Page 25 of Desperate Crimes
Because his voice is a scalpel, and he’s cutting me open with it.
Peeling back all the layers I’ve carefully constructed—good girl, honors student, loyal daughter, obedient niece—and laying bare the secret rot underneath.
The darkness inside me that might actually want this.
That used to fantasize about being dragged into the dark by a man with wicked hands and a filthy mouth.
“I’m talking about you being honest,” he says low. “With me. With yourself.”
“You don’t know me,” I whisper, scooting backwards towards the pillows and headrest, my fingers tightening on the blanket beneath me, like it might save me.
But even I can hear how weak the denial sounds.
Like a lie I’ve told myself too many times.
And the stranger? My kidnapper? He doesn’t stop. Just keeps talking through whatever gadget he’s using to disguise himself.
“Oh, I know you, princess. And I know all the desperate wishes you’ve whispered into the night. I know what keeps you awake long after the world sleeps. What your fingers seek when no one is watching. The ache you’ve never named out loud.”
Heat floods my face.
My thighs press together before I can stop myself.
Oh God. Oh God.
How does he know?
How could a stranger possibly know?
Except he doesn’t feel like a stranger.
Not really.
There’s something in the way he speaks—in the rough cadence of his voice, in the sharpness of his observations, in the certainty—that makes something dangerous unfurl inside me.
A truth I don’t want to admit.
Not even to myself.
Because even if I did scream, even if I did run?
Some deep, hidden part of me wants to stay.
“Headache gone?”
I nod.
“Good girl.”
Fuck.
I shiver at his words. I know he’s disguising his voice, but still, it’s deep and gritty.
And here’s the truly embarrassing part?
My brain, in all its frantic, oxygen-deprived chaos, decides to go there.
Straight to every dark, spicy romance novel I’ve ever devoured under the covers at two in the morning.
