"He'll find me," I say, voice thin and desperate. "He always finds me."
"Not this time."
The night air hits my legs like a slap as he pulls me outside. The massive shadow of his car waits in the driveway—some sleek European thing with tinted windows. He pops the trunk with a remote, the lid rising with hydraulic precision.
"No—" I finally manage to struggle again, panic breaking through the haze. "You don't understand?—"
"I understand perfectly." He lifts me easily, depositing me into the trunk like I weigh nothing. "He's lost his mind. Complete fuckin’ psychopath now. I won't let him kill another woman."
Another woman?
The stranger's face hovers above me, moonlight catching the planes of his cheekbones, the storm-gray of his eyes. He looks genuinely concerned, genuinely heroic in his misplaced rescue mission.
"It's okay," he says, softer now. "I'm Lorcan. And I'm gonna get you out of here. If it's the last thing I do, I’ll protect you..."
The trunk slams shut with brutal finality, plunging me into darkness. The engine growls to life, and the car lurches forward, carrying me away from the only place I've ever felt like I belonged.
I press my cheek against the cold metal of the trunk, feeling each vibration through my bones as the car speeds away. My mind should be racing with escape plans. I should be panicking, clawing at the trunk release, screaming until my voice gives out.
Instead, my thighs press together, seeking friction.
The stranger's grip on my throat replays in my mind, and my pulse quickens. The way he overpowered me, the effortless control, the certainty in his voice. My body responds to the memory like Pavlov's most fucked-up dog, trained to salivate at the sound of any bell, not just my Master's or my King's.
I don't fight the arousal. What's the point?
Instead, I surrender to it, the way I've been taught.
The way that makes everything quiet and simple.
They've trained me so perfectly—drilled it into my bones, my breath, my body's first instinct—that I'll spread my legs for anyone who can make me feel owned.
Anyone who wraps their hand around my throat with that same confident pressure.
Anyone whose voice carries that edge of absolute certainty.
So congratulations, Lorcan the Heroic Kidnapper—you gallant son of a bitch with your storm-gray eyes, and your careful touches, and your low, rumbling voice that wraps around my bones like gravity itself.
You just rescued me from one cage and walked me straight into another.
The only difference is…
You don't even know you're holding the fucking key.