Desperate crimes, p.5
Desperate Crimes, page 5
part #1 of Mergers & Acquisitions Series
There’s a miniature maze that, when in bloom—like now—is a riot of color and fresh floral scents with hidden alcoves perfect for getting lost in.
There’s a brick patio outside the French doors, with bistro tables and antique chairs I handpicked from a dealer in Milan.
A full outdoor kitchen and bar, a pool, a Jacuzzi that heats on command.
You know—the usual.
But after all that, I added the touches that matter.
The ones she would like.
An old-fashioned wooden swing, bolted to a wood trellis with climbing vines and roses near the edge of the garden.
Reading nooks nestled beneath blooming arches.
Statues she used to stop and admire when we’d pass sculpture gardens on whatever trips our families took together.
A fire pit for chilly nights with handcrafted Adirondack chairs. Perfect for when I can wrap her in a blanket and keep her warm with my hands.
Private places. Intimate corners. For us.
We’ll explore them together.
Just not yet.
Right now, I’m content to watch.
She’s fire and vinegar when she’s pissed off, and I love her in a temper.
Leanna’s back to pacing again, throwing daggers at the walls with her eyes like she can will them to fall.
Goddamn, she’s stunning when she fights.
And later?
When that fire turns to need?
When she’s writhing beneath me, sobbing my name, claiming me with every kiss?
She’ll be even more beautiful then.
And I’ll finally give her everything.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she was made for this.
For me. For this life. For the us I’ve built behind the scenes, brick by brick, file by file, until I knew every detail.
She’s only twenty-four, and part of me thinks I might be a monster for taking her.
But I ignore that negative commentary.
If I am a monster?
Then, I’m her monster.
And she is mine.
Still untouched. Pure.
And don’t think for a second that’s an accident.
I made fucking sure of it.
Every guy who got too close? Gone.
Quietly. Discreetly.
She never noticed. Never had to.
I left her a clean slate.
Because when I touch her for the first time, I want it to mean something.
I want to carve my name into her soul.
I want her to feel who she belongs to.
Me.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down, annoyed at the interruption.
Sammy Ramirez.
Of course.
He’s the only one who’d dare. My best friend, if I could claim such a thing.
Trusted, mostly.
And not stupid.
He knows who I’ve taken.
She’s his fucking cousin,
And he knows what this means.
I glance down at the text message and grit my teeth.
Sammy
You know what you’re doing?
That’s all the text says.
Short. Cryptic. A warning in five words.
Because Adrik Volkov has a reputation.
Because Volkov blood doesn’t take disrespect lightly.
But I don’t even hesitate as I type back.
Nico Jr.
Yeah, I’m taking what’s mine. Same as you.
I say, unnecessarily reminding him of how he married my cousin, Aella, on the sly, away from family and friends.
We’re two peas in a pod, Sammy and me. At least, in our obsessive natures when it comes to the women we love.
I drop the phone on the desk and turn back to the screen.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, her head in her hands.
And for a second, I swear I see it—that flicker of vulnerability.
That crack in her armor.
She’ll try to resist. Of course, she will.
But not forever.
Because I’ve already done the hard part.
I found her.
Claimed her.
Built her a kingdom.
All that’s left now is to teach her how to rule it—with me.
Chapter Nine-Leanna
My mouth is dry.
My head’s still foggy, but the haze is lifting just enough for the panic to settle in behind it.
I sit on the edge of the massive bed and try to steady my breathing.
That’s when I notice it.
A bottle of water, perfectly chilled, condensation glistening on the outside. Beside it, a small tray with snacks—fruit, crackers, almonds, dark chocolate squares.
The kind I like. The exact kind I like.
It should freak me out more than it does.
I grab the water first, unscrewing the cap and downing half the bottle in a few gulps.
Then, I tear into a square of chocolate with shaking fingers. My stomach knots with every bite, but the sugar helps calm the worst of the jitters.
I try lying down, but I can’t sleep.
Not really.
I just keep shifting atop the sheets, silk brushing over bare skin, too aware of everything.
The scent of roses lingers in the air, and I love it.
I hate that I love it.
Liar.
I ignore my inner voice and close my eyes, but the silence? It’s too loud.
There’s this pulsing beat of something in the air.
And a hum beneath my skin that feels suspiciously like longing.
Eventually, I give up.
I slide out of bed, hugging my tight dress to my body, arms around my waist.
I’m thicker than what’s considered trendy. A size sixteen in a size zero world. But most of the women in my family are curvy, and I know how to dress to accentuate my fuller figure.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have my insecurities. We all do. And I hate that when people meet me for the first time they assume they know me. They assume I overeat, don’t exercise, that kind of thing.
Fuck them.
I played soccer from the time I was in preschool through college. I love to hike, swim, and to go for bike rides. I love walks in the city. Trips to zoos and museums.
Even now, while I try to find what it is I want to do with my life, I’m fairly active. I just started a pole dancing class with my cousins Cora and Jade. It’s on Wednesdays.
The class is fun. And I love spending time with the girls.
And suddenly, I wonder if I’ll ever get back to that. To my life.
That old fear slithers back up my throat, and I try to swallow it down, but it’s not easy.
I inhale a fortifying breath, then I pad across the floor, barefoot and unsure of where I’m going.
My hand brushes over the wall until I find a smooth, hidden seam.
A door.
Could be a closet. Or something else. I run my fingers along the panel, noting how well it blends with the wall.
There’s no handle.
Excitement courses through my veins. I wonder, not for the first time how messed up I really am because I’m still not freaking out.
In fact, I’m more curious than anything.
And when I push?
It gives.
Click.
The door swings open on silent hinges, and I freeze in the threshold.
My breath catches.
What lies beyond is not a closet. Not even close.
It’s a—oh my God—a garden!
A secret garden.
An indoor one.
Like a miniature arboretum.
The floor is covered in mossy green rugs that mimic grass beneath my feet, and raised planters line the walls, overflowing with vines and blossoms that thrive in the carefully calculated temperature.
It’s cool, but not cold. And there’s moisture—like a humidifier or something—for the plants.
There’s a bench tucked under an ivy-covered arch and warm golden sconces casting light like fireflies.
But what steals my breath—what owns it—is the centerpiece.
A massive potted spruce tree.
Easily ten feet tall, stretching toward a skylight carved into the ceiling above.
Moonlight spills in, casting silver light across the glossy glass ornaments hanging from the branches—snowflakes, stars, icicles, tiny fantastical creatures, each one delicate and unique.
Twinkle lights circle the beast of a tree like a constellation come to life.
A thousand tiny stars wrapped around branches that shimmer with just enough needle-tipped glamor to take my breath away.
It’s magnificent.
And completely unexpected.
On another wall, I spy roses flourishing in a variety of clay pots. More Halfeti blooms, so deeply saturated they look black as ink.
Rich, velvety and impossible.
I step closer.
They’re real.
Beautiful.
Crimson petals edged in black, a color I’ve only ever seen this perfect in photoshopped pictures or high-concept fantasy bouquets.
He got me black roses.
My heart thuds.
Between those and the Christmas tree, I have to wonder—is my kidnapper obsessed with me?
He knows me better than I imagined.
I always have a tree in my room at home regardless of the month or time of year.
It’s my tradition.
My little slice of joy.
No matter how chaotic life gets, no matter how many security guards hover outside my windows or how overbearing my parents act—Christmas is mine.
I never told anyone about that.
Not really.
And yet here it is.
Recreated in a way no one could ever guess unless they knew.
Unless they’d been watching.
I walk toward the tree slowly, eyes darting over the ornaments.
Some are vintage.
Others are clearly custom.
A snow globe with a blonde woman inside that looks almost like me.
A little book ornament with Princess engraved on the spine.
One—my fingers brush it gently—is shaped like a snake. Another is a wolf.
My stomach tightens.
This wasn’t thrown together.
This was crafted.
For me.
And suddenly I don’t know if I want to cry or scream.
Because this?
This is beautiful.
Romantic.
Thoughtful.
And terrifying.
Let’s not forget that.
Because whoever did this—whoever stole me away—doesn’t just want me.
They know me.
Not in the shallow, surface-level way men usually pretend to.
Not just my name, my face, or what shows up in the tabloids after a gala.
No, this is something else entirely.
They’ve studied me.
Carefully. Intimately.
With the kind of quiet, consuming attention that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t know how to process.
They’ve traced the contours of my private world—things I never speak aloud.
The way I keep a tree in my room year-round because Christmas makes me feel safe.
The exact brand of chocolates I hoard.
They found those softest parts of me—the secret ones, the real ones—and wrapped them in fairy lights and frosted glass. Curated this hidden wonderland like an altar to everything I’ve never dared to ask for out loud.
Like an offering.
And I have to wonder, is that what I am?
An offering?
A tribute dressed in lace and silk and nostalgia?
But the real question—the one crawling through my veins like heat and static—is this. An offering for whom?
Am I meant for the kidnapper or someone else?
Some shadowy buyer or twisted collector?
The idea makes me nauseous.
And a part of me hopes that all this—the tree, the lights, the roses, the restraint—is just for him.
For the voice in the dark who calls me Princess like it’s a birthright.
The truth sits just out of reach, coiled in the corner of my mind like smoke I can’t catch.
And I hate it.
I hate how much I want to know.
I should be planning an escape.
I should be plotting, screaming, fighting.
But instead?
I’m thinking about him.
Whoever he is.
I want to know why he knows me better than anyone ever has.
And why do I like that so much?
Chapter Ten-Leanna
I get I should be screaming bloody murder.
But a large part of me just wants to accept it.
My fingers curl around each other.
I tilt my head up, staring into the endless black of the sky above, stars visible through the skylight, cold and distant.
What kind of girl gets kidnapped and finds a secret Christmas garden waiting for her?
What kind of girl sees that and feels her chest ache with something almost like wonder?
Oh God.
There is definitely something wrong with me.
Because I should be trying to break out of here.
I should be doing something. Anything.
But I don’t want to leave this room. This secret place that was made just for me—I know it was.
It’s summer outside.
But in here? It could be December 24th, forever frozen in time.
There’s no chill in the air—just warmth.
A gentle ambient heat that wraps around me like a weighted blanket.
It smells like pine needles and roses and something faintly sweet, like cinnamon and clove.
Like memory.
I should feel disoriented. But I don’t.
I feel like I’m home.
This isn’t just a spectacle meant to entice me.
It’s a Christmas spirit time capsule.
One carved out of stone and glass and knowing.
Made just for me.
And maybe that’s what unravels me the most.
Because it’s not cold. It’s warm. And it’s dark. And I love it.
I really fucking love it.
And I—I want to stay.
I walk over to the bench beneath the black roses and sit.
And for just a minute, I let myself pretend that this place—the garden, the tree, the roses, and the lights—wasn’t built by a stranger in the dark.
I let myself pretend it was a gift from someone who cares about me.
Someone who loves me.
And since I’m confessing, I really want that.
A person of my own.
A love that borders on obsession.
Even if that love might ruin me.
I back out of the magical room, back into the bedroom and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.
The dress I wore to the premiere still clings to my body, too tight now that the adrenaline has drained away.
My strapless bra is digging into my ribs.
The silk is bunched in all the wrong places, riding up my thighs, clinging to my stomach.
I look like a hostage at a fashion shoot. And not in a cute, high-glam sort of way.
I’m not built for lounging in couture.
Not like the girls in the magazines.
I’ve always been more. Curvier. Softer. Bigger.
It’s not a secret, and I’m not ashamed—not really—but I also know my limits.
And one of them is sleeping in this damn dress.
I make my way into the bathroom, half-expecting to find nothing but cold tile and sterile nothingness.
Instead?
There’s a pale pink silk robe hanging from a gold hook near the vanity.
It’s delicate. Soft. Gorgeous.
And it’s big. My size.
I hesitate.
It’s foolish, I know. Creepy as hell, honestly. Someone—he—prepared this.
Like he knew I’d want out of that dress.
Like he knew I’d need something to wrap around myself to feel safe.
Still, I can’t stop my fingers from reaching for it.
The second the silk glides across my skin, I sigh—a sound that surprises even me.
It’s just so soft, like a whispered promise against my bare skin.
It wraps around me with perfect ease, falling just to mid-thigh, the sash cinching at my waist like it was made for me.
Maybe it was.
And that thought alone sends a fresh wave of nerves through me.
I step back into the bedroom, calmer now, robe tied tight, body buzzing with low-grade awareness I don’t want to name.
I climb into the bed, sinking into the mattress, the sheets cool against my legs as I lay back.
And then—click.
The lights go out.
Completely.
My breath catches in my throat.
It doesn’t just switch to pitch black like before—not exactly.
This is intentional.
The lights dim progressively, smoothly, gradually, like a theater curtain falling until they reach that impossible darkness. Until I can’t see anything at all.
My pulse thuds in my ears.
He said they’d turn on when he left. That I should rest.
But they’re off now. So, what does that mean?
I’m alone, wrapped in silk and shadows and tension, and rest feels like the last thing I want.
My skin prickles. My body hums.
And somewhere, tangled in the mess of fear and curiosity and adrenaline, something else rises.
Anticipation.
Fuck. Am I really lying here thinking about this like it’s the opening scene to one of my mother’s novels?
Holding on to my virginity for twenty-four years like it was something sacred—guarded, hidden, protected like a secret I didn’t even know I was keeping.
And now?
Now I’m lying in a stranger’s bed, wearing a silk robe he picked out for me, wondering what it would feel like if he just took the choice from me.
Is that what I want?
Do I really want to be claimed?
Ravished? Ruined?
The worst part is, I don’t even know what he looks like.
I don’t know his name. His face.
