His Captive Bride's Fight For Freedom

They had taken her to the security office. The room was cold, and Cailin shivered under a guard's oversized jacket as the hotel manager and the head of security interrogated her.

She clamped her jaw shut. She repeated the same story over and over: she'd gone to the wrong room, panicked, and accidentally hit the alarm. She never mentioned the man. She repeated in her mind: don't say a word about that man. Not a single word. If she did, she was finished.

The manager threatened to fire her, to make her pay for the damages. Cailin's hands, hidden under the table, clenched into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms, using the sting to keep herself alert.

Then, the manager's phone rang. His face instantly shifted from anger to a fawning, fearful respect.

The voice on the other end belonged to Nash Hayes, Graham's head of security. His tone was low and left no room for argument. "Let her go. Erase all security footage of the incident. This is over."

The manager hung up. He stared at Cailin with a new, confused apprehension. He waved a dismissive hand, and she was free to go.

Cailin fled the hotel. The cold, pre-dawn air hit her like a slap, and a wave of delayed shock washed over her, chilling her to the bone. She walked for a long time on the empty streets, until her legs gave out. She stopped under a streetlamp, staring at her own trembling hands, telling herself over and over: it's over. She left that place. He won't find her. She swore she would never set foot in that place again.

She returned to her tiny apartment in Brooklyn and stood under the shower, scrubbing her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the phantom feel of his hands, the scent of him that clung to her memory. But no matter how she scrubbed, that feeling of being pinned down, of being violated, seemed to have seeped into her skin. She turned off the water, crouched in the bathtub, buried her face in her knees, and sat there until the hot water turned cold.

Two days passed. Cailin started to believe the nightmare was over. She went to her music theory class at the community college, trying to force a sense of normalcy back into her life.

After class, a black Bentley glided to a stop in front of her, blocking her path.

The tinted window lowered.

It was him. The man from the hotel. Dressed in an immaculate, custom-tailored suit, his expression was cold and arrogant. He looked like a different person from the beast in the darkness.

Graham's gray eyes, now clear and sharp, pinned her in place. "Get in the car."

The bottom dropped out of Cailin's stomach. Her heart lurched. He found her. She thought it was over, but he found her. She spun around and ran.

Two men in dark suits appeared from nowhere, blocking her escape.

She was "escorted" into the back of the Bentley. The space was vast, the distance between her and Graham feeling like a mile of cold leather. She pressed her back against the opposite door, as if that could give her some safety. But the doors were locked.

"What do you want?" Cailin's voice shook with anger, but she told herself in her mind: don't lose control. Don't lose it in this car. No one would hear you if you screamed.

He didn't answer. Instead, he handed her a manila folder.

She opened it. It was a background check. Her adoption by the Pollard family. Her grades at the college. Every detail of her life was laid out in cold, black type.

The blood drained from her face. That feeling of being completely exposed, totally powerless, was worse than what he'd done to her that night. She felt like a specimen pinned to a board, naked, defenseless. She could barely breathe.

"Name your price," Graham finally said. His voice was flat, as if discussing a stock purchase. "Be my woman. Everything that troubles you now will cease to be a problem."

Cailin looked at his handsome, condescending face, and the fire of her anger burned away her fear, leaving a core of pure, cold fury. Her mind scrambled for a weapon, any lie that would make this man recoil in disgust. She needed a reason — anything — to make him think she was "dirty," unworthy. Even if it was absurd.

A strange smile spread across her lips. She leaned forward, closing the distance between them.

Graham's body tensed instinctively, but he didn't pull away. He was curious.

She whispered in his ear, her voice low and venomous. "Did you know, Mr. Shepherd? I'm sick."

Her smile widened. "It's a very rare skin condition. Transmitted through bodily fluids. There aren't many symptoms at first, but eventually... your whole body rots. It's a very painful way to go."

She waited for his expression. She was betting on it — betting that he'd be disgusted, that he'd push her away, that she would win. Her stomach churned, her nails dug into her palms, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Graham's pupils contracted slightly. But he didn't flinch. He didn't show any of the revulsion she'd expected.

Instead, he reached out and gently, with the tip of his finger, traced the outline of her lips.

The gesture was so unnervingly intimate it made her lie feel pathetic and transparent. Her heart stopped for half a beat.

He leaned closer, his nose almost touching hers. His voice was a bare whisper, meant only for her. "Is that so? Then we're a perfect match."

He paused, his gray eyes glinting with a dangerous, obsessive light. "Because I'm sick, too. With a condition... that only you don't trigger."

She couldn't understand what he was saying. What condition? What did he mean by "only you"? It only felt absurd, and cold. This man was either insane or playing with her. And she didn't know how to handle either.