Page 28 of Desperate Crimes

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My body tenses as that distorted voice cuts in again, dragging me back to the darkness I’ve been trapped in for hours.

“What are you thinking right now?”

God.

He’s still here?

Still watching?

Still playing this game?

I lift my chin, even though I can’t see him.

Even though I’m tied up in knots in the dark with my pulse thrumming like war drums in my throat.

Even though I’m terrified.

Because the truth is, I don’t know if this is still fantasy or if I’ve fallen into a waking nightmare.

“I’m thinking of all the ways my father is going to murder you,” I snap, my voice cold, clean, braver than I feel.

There’s a pause. A rustle.

Then a laugh. Low. Crackling. Static-laced and smug.

“Ha. He can try, Princess.”

The way he says it—Princess—sends a shiver straight down my spine.

Not mocking.

Claiming.

And I hate it.

But not for the reasons you think.

I hate that it makes my thighs press together.

That it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

That it ignites every single one of those forbidden book fantasies and blurs the line between fear and fascination.

Because what if this isn’t pretend?

What if he sees me?

What if the monster I’ve been dreaming of has come for me at last?

And what if I don’t want to be saved? Not yet. Maybe not at all.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re really thinking?” he asks.

And just like that—damn.

Why does that voice—cold and anonymous and absolutely twisted—turn me on?

There has to be something wrong with me.

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