Page 68 of His Captive

I wonder if this is his next tactical move, to kill me with kindness.

Rubbing my lips together before I open them, I take the grape from between his fingers.

“When Mrs. Pritchard asked what she should prepare for your breakfast. I realized I had no idea what you liked best,” he confesses looking ashamed.

“Well, you’ve never asked me,” I remind him, not meaning for it to sound as sharp as it come out. The last thing I want is to ruin his mood. So I’m relieved when he snorts a laugh.

“You’re right…Lysetta, So, what is your favorite breakfast?” he asks, sounding almost playful.

“Well, I never used to eat breakfast until I…” —became a prisoner to a sadistic sex monster— “...came here.”

“And now, you will never skip breakfast again,” he tells me, offering me a plate stacked with pastries. I take a croissant from the top, tearing some of the pastry away and popping it in my mouth. It’s fresh and delicious.

“So, what's your favorite—”

“What is this, Ethan?” I interrupt him, unnerved by his change in mood.

“Is this a ‘what’s your favorite color,’ get to know each other better, kind of conversation we’re gonna have before you decide how you’re going to hurt me next?”

It almost seems like my words hurt him when the smile drops from his face.

“I’m just trying at being nice.” For the first time ever Ethan doesn’t sound confident. I suddenly feel bad.

“Well, it’s freaking me out,” I smile, nudging him with my shoulder. Hoping his playfulness will return.

“Ahh. I see.” He takes the tray, placing it on the floor before crawling over me, pinning my hands behind me.

“You prefer me like this,” he snarls, rubbing his rough chin against my neck and taking my earlobe in his teeth.

I giggle, and he pulls back. Hanging over me, and staring down. His lips rub together. There’s a silence between us. A moment where I expect him to drop his head and actually kiss me. I’m sure he’s considering it.

“Why have you never kissed me, Ethan? Sometimes I think you want to, but you hold back,” I get brave and ask him outright.

“Men like me don’t kiss women,” he explains curtly.

“Why don’t you cry?” He returns a question to me before I can ask him what he means.

I shrug because I don’t really know myself. “I’ve always figured crying wouldn’t change anything. I knew my Dad wanted to cry when we lost Mom, but he never did. He held back for me so I held back for him.”

“And what about when you lost him?” he asks.

“My heart broke, but I didn’t cry. I had no one to be brave for so that's weird I guess? But, I felt something much worse than pain after I lost him…I felt nothing.”

Ethan looks at me like he relates to my words.

“So, what do men like you do to a woman, Ethan Shaw?” I ask him, switching the attention back to him and shaking away my sadness.

“We fuck them...” he tells me burying his head and growling into my neck. My center twitches when he nips at my skin. Fuck, the man knows my body better than I do.

“I’m being serious.” I push him away before this escalates, hoping for some honesty. Although, I have a feeling that much is true. Ethan seems to know his way around the female anatomy pretty well.

He thinks for a while before he answers me.

“Once I realized what I wanted to do with my life, I had to get the money to get myself started. I was consumed with anger and hate, and I found a way to channel it while earning cash at the same time.”

“Oh my God… you’re a hitman.” Dread pools in my stomach. I know Ethan is dangerous, but a murderer?

“No,” he laughs. “Not a hitman, Lysa.”

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