Rags To Royals (Royal #1: Book 1) | ✔

31

play: tongue (maribou state, holly walker)

-• temporarily kidnapped •-

I feel this man has a thing for dark places. Like his eyes, almost black with a hint of brown, the moonlight reveals just the slightest of the night, not to give him away, but to lure you in. And for some strange stupid reasons, I always find myself drawn to him, not willingly, definitely not intentionally, but through the trick of a time, beguiled by the circumstances.

My wrists twist in his steel grip, and a scream bubbles from the depths of my chest, the sound muffled by the thick, cold barrier pressed against my mouth. My eyes narrow in slits, and I feel my blood boil at the thought of being held captive by someone my eldest brother intends to keep a secret.

"Easy, Princess, easy," he whispers, his lilt lazy, with a twinge of danger, the rich timbre spoken softly, in a voice lower than my breathing.

I don't obey, neither do I stop fighting to free myself from his overbearing presence. He watches me, almost bored, and cracks his neck, releasing a pop sound. My eyes almost jump out of their sockets at his audacity.

"I'll let you go if you promise to not scream," he looks down at me firmly.

I nod hurriedly.

"You scream and I'll tie you to that fucking bed with your mouth taped and hands cuffed, all helpless until someone finds you in the morning." He threatens and he means it.

I swallow the remaining of resistance left in my feminine ass and nod again. Slowly, like a warning, a message that cuts through my senses and impales my flight or fight mode, he lowers his hand from my mouth, willing to go through with his threat if I so much as move a muscle in my neck to do more than breathe. My forced obedience earns me a huge sadistic grin, one that I can't see, but reflects in his dark eyes. He's so fucking pleased with my submission. And I absolutely loathe the satisfaction on his face.

What a fucking psycho. No wonder my brother wants to keep him a secret. I would want him to be one too, preferably in a fucking grave.

My hand itches to rip off the scarf concealing half of his face. I wish he does it himself. But he doesn't, he just shifts back a little to take a good look at me. I feel uncomfortable trapped between him and the door, but it's not like I can do much, he's stronger than me, resilient than me, and definitely stubborn than me by a long shot. I prefer not taking the risk.

A howling wind gusts through the window and timidly lifts the side of his scarf, revealing a jawline so sharp it could give paper a paper cut. He fixes the scarf without taking his eyes off me. I take that chance to slip away from him and the door. That elicits a chuckle out of his lips as he steps forward and turns, leaning against the door, still watching me shamelessly.

"What do you want?" I ask softly, hiding my trembling fingers on my back.

"Fun," he answers. "I haven't had fun is so many years now."

I narrow my eyes at him as a flurry of immoral activities flash through my head hearing his answer.

"Excuse me? I'm not a prostitute!"

He freezes for a moment, then shifts his gaze to my feet, coming back up slowly until he finally reaches my eyes again. A slow laugh rumbles from his chest and he shakes his head.

"Little girl, don't get so ahead of yourself. You're not my type." The amusement returns in his tone. I flush red in embarrassment.

Wait! Did he just call me little girl!?