His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(13)
Author: Shayla Black

“Calm down, Bailey,” he rumbled in a low voice that incited a shiver of fear.

Hell no! “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Said the spider to the fly . . . “Where am I? What do you want?”

“To save you.”

From what? Was he planning to kill her in order to “save” her from the cruel world or whatever? Terror made her tremble again.

“I was doing fine on my own. Let me go. Please! I won’t tell anyone about this.”

Compassion tempered his face for a moment. “Even if you didn’t, you’d be in far more danger. I know you’re scared. I’m sorry I had to get this drastic, but there’s a lot going on that you don’t know.”

“You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“I don’t. Just hear me out.” The man’s assurance rattled her even more. “We’ll start at the top. According to your records, you were born Bailey Katherine Benson. You came into the world twenty-one years ago on December fourth in Houston. But I don’t think that’s true.”

What? Obviously he was a few sandwiches shy of a picnic. “No, that’s exactly who I am. If you’re looking for someone else—”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not, but let me finish telling you my theory.”

“Let me the hell out of here!” she demanded, struggling against her restraints. But he didn’t budge—and neither did they. “You have to let me go. People are going to miss me.”

“Not the people you know as your parents. They’re ‘dead.’” He made air quotes.

“Yes, they are. Why are you doing this to me?”

“The identities of Jane and Bob Benson are dead, but I suspect the people behind them are very much alive. Didn’t you ever think those names were a little too simple?”

“For what, good parents?”

They’d been supportive of her academically, except her weird love of science. Her mother had called that unladylike. Artistically, they’d been in favor of dance. They hadn’t been the sort of parents to hug or tease her a lot, but at least one of them had dutifully attended every recital. Her dad had sometimes been preoccupied, wrapped up in his career, she supposed. Her mom had passed her time constantly gardening or sewing—neither of which had appealed to Bailey.

“I’ll bet they were FBI agents with aliases whose mission it was to raise and protect you, but I’ll check on that.”

“No.” The denial slipped out automatically.

Still, his words echoed in her head. She hadn’t looked like either of her parents—not even a little. She hadn’t shared any interests with them, either. As she’d gotten older, they had insisted she learn to defend herself, to fire a gun, to hunt and cook her own game, to box. She hadn’t taken much of it seriously. Instead, she’d been hurt, assuming that her dad had wanted a son, and when he hadn’t fathered one, he’d tried to morph her into one instead. But federal agents?

No, they’d been her parents. Maybe they hadn’t been perfect, but they’d been hers. She wasn’t going to let this psycho tell her otherwise.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close, his face looming just above hers. “You are. You’re cuffed, remember? I swear I won’t hurt you, but you’re not going anywhere until I let you. It’s for your own good.”

She bit her lip. He might have her in a bind—literally—but that didn’t mean she had to share any part of herself with him. “Fuck off, creep.”

He grabbed her chin in a firm but not painful grip. That surprised her. If he wanted to cause her pain, he could do it easily. She had no way to stop him, and he was certainly big enough. Then again, maybe he was toying with her or biding his time until he got whatever he wanted from her.

“Are you forgetting who has the upper hand?”

Like that was possible. “Why don’t you tell me what you want so we can get this over with and I can go home?”

His big fingers left her face. He dragged them up her arms and curled a hot path around her manacled wrists, pinning her deeper into the mattress. A manly spice wafted from him. Cataloging it momentarily distracted Bailey. The fact that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Menacing smelled good just seemed wrong.

He scanned her face. Trying to decide how to proceed? “What’s your earliest memory?”

Disturbing dreams. “Memories? I thought you’d want money. I don’t have much, by the way. Let’s not play this stupid game.”