Page 31 of Desperate Crimes
“Rest now,” he says, softer this time.
Like he cares.
Like he’s not the villain in this story. More like the author who wrote it.
Then—silence.
It stretches.
Long. Heavy. Intimate.
Like he’s still in the room. Watching. Breathing with me.
Smiling while I lie here alone, wrapped in the scent of roses and his voice, pretending I don’t want the monster in the dark to come back and touch me.
A few beats later, I feel more than hear the soft hiss of a door sealing shut.
And a second after that, soft lighting flickers on, revealing a room so luxurious it steals the breath from my lungs.
What the actual hell?
It’s like a fantasy come to life.
Like someone plucked my dreams right out of my head and willed them into existence.
The bedding is white. Expensive. Egyptian cotton.
There's a plush armchair in the corner, a vanity with my favorite brand of lip balm, my skin cream, facial products, hair—even a bouquet of Halfeti roses, sometimes called Black Magic Roses, sit in a crystal vase—my favorite, arranged exactly how I like them.
The room is perfect.
Too perfect.
It’s like he’s heard my most secret wishes.
Like he’s been watching me.
And as my heart hammers in my chest and my eyes scan the space—searching for a camera I know has to be there but can’t quite see—I start to piece it together.
This isn’t a ransom situation.
This isn’t about money.
Or politics.
Or making a statement to the Volkov Clan.
This is personal.
This isn’t about my family.
This is about me.
And the realization hits like ice water down my spine.
Whoever he is—this masked voice, this captor who calls me Princess with that infuriating mix of mockery and reverence I hear and identify despite the modulator—he didn’t take me because of who my father is.
He took me because of who I am.
