Sculptor: A Steamy Romance (8 page)

I take him to the rough sculpture, almost complete, and rip the sheet off.

“My bride will be pleased.”

I almost punch him straight in the mouth right then.

Maybe he's just here to get my reactions because it seems he's deliberately saying the most infuriating things.

I realize I'll probably have to pack my shit up tonight and move out of this place by tomorrow; I don't trust this asshole as far as I can throw him while he’s holding this sculpture.

"Stella is quite beautiful, isn't she?"

"Excuse me?"

“Come on, you know. She has known you since she was a little girl, hasn't she?”

He is simmering with choked rage.

Damn. He knows exactly who I am—full name, childhood residential street, mother's maiden name, high school mascot.

This is not good.

Did he follow Stella here? Did he follow her to my home? Me to hers?

Or did he have someone else do it, as guys like them usually do?

I figure that's the most likely explanation—he hired someone neither Stella nor I would recognize by face or car, and that person has been keeping tabs on us.

But since when? And what made him start? Or has he been following Stella around since they started dating?

I need to get her safe as soon as possible.

“Anyway, I’d like to the project to continue,” he says, turning on his heel toward the exit.

Amazingly, I keep my cool, and once Harry Bechard takes off, I look around the studio, searching for signs of anything out of place.

He could have installed a camera or even planted a damned bomb.

He might have even pocketed something.

I have a horrible feeling in my gut, and my eyes haven’t spotted anything particularly out of the ordinary until I suddenly get the urge to check my canvas bag—the bag I keep things I don’t want to get dirty in. The bag where I keep Stella’s panties—the pair she left from her first day in my studio.

Unfortunately, it’s in plain sight where any set of curious eyes can easily look, leaning against my mini-refrigerator.

I already know what I’ll find when I search it—the panties are gone.

Panic seizes me.

I know without a doubt that Stella is in serious trouble.

* * *

F
uck
, fuck, fuck.

Stella isn’t answering her phone, and the terrible feeling in my gut has only grown.

I hop in my car and head to the location she gave me, even though I already instinctually know I won’t find a sign of her or the billionaire.

I hop out and search anyway, and while I’m still looking for clues, I dial up her brother. Thank goodness we exchanged info again.

“Aaron, have you heard from your sister, by chance?”

“No. Was I supposed to? I just saw her earlier today.”

“Well, I think something’s happened to her.”

I can feel his whole manner change, even over the phone.

“What do you mean?”

“Her…ex-fiancé stopped by my studio unannounced and he absolutely knows we’ve been…involved. I don’t think that bodes well for her—especially since she planned to meet up with him to give him back his ring today.”

“Shit, you’re probably right. Where were they meeting?”

“I’m there now and they’re definitely not here.”

“At the mansion, you think? I don’t have the address yet but I can get it.”

“I doubt he’d take her there. In any case, get the address—I’ll have someone check it out; in fact, I’m about to make several calls to some old buddies of mine. See what you can dig up. We have to track her down before that guy does something fatally stupid.”

I have no doubt that, between Aaron and me, we can figure things out.

With Aaron’s computer skills and intel gathering, plus my military connections—warriors I have spoken and unspoken pacts with to help out in whatever capacity any of us needs—this billionaire doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

I
awaken groggy
, trying to remember when the heck I fell asleep.

Then I realize my arms are above my head and that I’m upright.

Horror fills me once I realize I’m naked.

My wrists are in metal cuffs attached to the ceiling, and my feet are grazing the floor.

Harold is standing there with what looks like a whip in his hand, wearing a ridiculous black leather outfit and I almost laugh.

Surely this is some sort of dream? The beginning of a horrible nightmare?

But the fatigue in my stretched arms and the burning shame of being so exposed feels very real.

Harold is watching me with great interest as I come to.

"Welcome back," he says.

I try to remember where I was before I got knocked out.

It slowly starts coming back to me—Harold asked me to meet him, I headed over to the designated location with every intention of handing him the engagement ring and letting him know I'll pay the allowance back, return the car...

Panic slowly rises as I remember not even reaching the location—instead, my car started doing its own thing, like it was being remote controlled.

Or was that part of this dream?

I've heard of car computer systems getting hacked—people being able to turn off your engine, mess with the braking system—but surely...

I suddenly realize my car's odd behavior was most definitely deliberate.

My car pulled itself aside, a black car came up behind me, and I tried to lock my car against the masked men in black exiting it, but locking my car was no longer an option—I couldn’t control anything on the vehicle.

One of the men opened the door and easily pulled me out.

I don't remember much after that.

"You must be punished, Stella," Harold says, his blue eyes cold.

"Where am I?"

"Somewhere no one will find you."

My eyes keep darting around my surroundings, as if even if they locate an exit I can slip out of these cuffs easily.

My feet are also cuffed and chained, so I'd have to pull off quite the Houdini to get loose.

All sorts of tools I don’t understand are near me, but they mostly look like instruments of torture.

I'm still hoping this is some sort of extremely realistic dream.

I've had those before—where it's like you walked into a high-stakes movie and you’re suddenly a part of the action. Your physical body is affected—heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through.

You wake up amazed it was just a dream.

I can't wait for that part.

"I am so very disappointed in you, Stella," Harold says, his voice reflecting exaggerated disappointment, his hand running down the leather strip of the instrument in his hand.

He doesn't actually plan to use that on me, does he?

What kind of bullshit fantasy is this?

"You must be punished, Stella. And then, since you have robbed me of your virginity one way, I'll take it in others."

Dread fills me.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you take me for a fool?" he asks, suddenly looking enraged.

Fear rocks me and I am frozen speechless.

Is he bluffing or does he really know about Derek and me?

Is this my own mind playing a sick trick out of guilt? Is this my conscience speaking?

But then Harold produces a small piece of red fabric I instantly recognize, and I know that this is very real.

I start struggling against my chains.

“You're not going anywhere…yet," he says, and I quickly feel stupid for the dash of hope that surged through me.

There's no way he's just going to just let me go after this.

I don't know if he plans to just keep me here indefinitely or what, but once he 'punishes' me, he is most certainly going to punish Derek, one way or another.

"Oh, is this yours?" he says in a falsely surprised voice. "Strange. Found it in Dagor's studio. How on earth did it get there?"

"How did you find him? How did you…?”

“You must have figured that car I gave you had a tracker on it? I know where you go and when—your coordinates at any given time.”

I fill with guilt over inadvertently putting Derek at risk.

I knew the car had all sorts of bells and whistles, but I never suspected some of its snazzy features would be used against me, that those bells and whistles were betraying me.

"Did you really think I wouldn't keep tabs on you? You're an asset, Stella."

The way he says asset rings a different alarm bell.

I get the feeling he's not just objectifying me as some trophy wife—something else is going on, and a slow terror builds in me as my subconscious slowly starts pushing the answer to the surface.

But before it gets there, Harold clears up everything.

"I've been robbed of training you properly, and now you're practically worthless. Sure, I can find other buyers, but not enough to make up my investment.”

My brain is trying like hell to reject what he’s implying, to save me from the horror of his intentions.

“I'll pay you back!” I say wildly.

He laughs.

It is genuine, though his face is still cold.

“Impossible,” he says. “This is not about your allowance, or that Aston Martin, or even the piece of art I commissioned as your bridal gift. The vast majority of your value came from your virginity. My client wanted the gorgeous ebony virgin beauty queen. You are still gorgeous, but you have been severely discounted. The most I can do with you now is have some fun before I dispose of you."

So he's going to kill me because I'm not a virgin anymore? Dude, it's not that serious!

But obviously it is—even in my terrified and foggy state, I understand clearly what he's saying—he had plans to sell me to the highest bidder.

I was never going to end up living in that mansion.

What I don't get is how he figured he'd get away with it!

Then again, he’s extremely rich, and those guys pretty much get away with anything.

Still, I have a small amount of fame—people would look for me if I went missing. There would be articles...

I quickly realize I'm telling myself a silly story.

I'm not really some huge celebrity, and news cycles are short, amongst other things.

Some photo of me from a pageant will show up for a few weeks—maybe—then everyone will move on.

My mother and brother will wonder and wonder and keep hoping I turn up someday.

“I'll keep you until I'm bored with you—until you're completely broken, and then, to the rest of the world, you'll just remain missing. I'll put up the appropriate front—devastated man determined to find his betrothed. I'll verbally flay myself for not being more careful, blame myself for your kidnapping. As the soon-to-be wife of a billionaire, everyone knew you'd be a target. I'll talk about waiting for the ransom note or video to show up. Insist I'd pay anything to have you back. I'll wait and hope and spend an appropriate time ‘looking’ and mourning. Then everyone will move on. Including your artist boyfriend.”

I fruitlessly rage against my chains once more.

I try not to get overcome by the thought of my mom, brother, and Derek frantically looking for me, waiting for any sign, hoping I turn up one day while Harold has dissolved me in acid or something. I try to hold back the tears at the thought of them never getting a body to bury.

“Why would you go through the trouble of having a gift made for me? Just for optics? To help support your narrative of being a devoted husband?”

“Of course, but also...think of it as a trophy of sorts. It is a representation of you—your essence.”

I am suddenly filled with horror as I flash back to the sculpture I originally admired in the mansion. Does it represent some girl now gone? Sold or otherwise?

Harold’s eyes rove my body greedily and I just want to die.

I hope he only touches me with the whip—I want to puke at the thought of his hands on any part of me and I can't even think about him putting any part of his inside me.

I completely ignored the fact that it would probably happen while set to marry him, but it was easy to ignore.

Now, while trapped in place, completely nude and with him a lot more exposed than usual, bulging out of his leather straps, I can’t ignore his intentions.

I retch, and I guess it's a good thing I haven't eaten recently because vomit would be all over this place.

“I wonder how long it will take for you to break?” he says as he slides the whip across my skin. “A day or two? A week? It’s tough to tell how resilient you really are—you put up a good front, Stella. You appear very confident and strong. But I sense you’re softer than you look. In any case, I've never had one who lasted more than a week.”

The strips of leather are still being dragged across my skin, and I keep waiting for him to finally pull back and shock me with the first lash.

I jump as a huge booming sound suddenly echoes from above, and I literally almost pass out from relief when I see the look on Harold’s face.

It could mean more horror for me, but his surprised, worried look tells me the intrusion was unexpected.

Someone has found us!

* * *

You don't fucking mess with special forces.

Don’t piss off a super-skilled hacker either.

Aaron found what we needed, and I’ll let him nerd out to me later about how he did it, but for now, my team and I have more pressing matters.

We storm the compound, and when Harry scuttles upstairs to see what’s up, it’s tough not to kill him right away since I know he’s done something to Stella, but I want him to suffer, and I need to see how much damage has been done so I can mete out the appropriate punishment.

My men and I have already disposed of the other parts of Harry’s operation—everyone directly involved in the kidnapping of my precious goddess—and now that we have him, I need to find her.

I let my team capture and hold him, telling them to keep him alive for now, then I indicate for them to give me a minute to check things out before going in the direction Harry came.

I’m glad I did because I might have wanted to stab their eyes out if they saw this.

I can’t even begin to pinpoint all the emotions that flood me when I see Stella hanging from the ceiling by her wrists, alive and naked with eyes full of tears, but relief and rage fill me the most.

Harry Bechard is most certainly a dead man.

I quickly locate everything I need to get her down and take my shirt off to cover her with.

It reaches her mid-thigh, shielding her for potential further trauma once I take her upstairs.

But for now, I wrap her in my arms and hold her tightly.

Safely pressed against my chest, she bursts into tears, and I comfort her as best as I can, gently stroking her back as she holds on to me.

“It’s all right,” I say gently. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I noticed her skin is still flawless all over, despite all the torture tools around.

We must have interrupted Harry right before he started.

Lucky for him.

Or not—considering he’s going to suffer anyway before we snuff him out.

“How did you find me?” she asks, looking up at me with such sorrowful eyes my heart squeezes, and I immediately come up with yet another way to torture Harry.

The violation he’ll feel—he’ll beg me to put him out of his misery.

“Your brother,” I say. “I think he’s part of Anonymous.”

She surprises me by laughing a little.

She has calmed down and her head is resting against my chest.

She’ll get to lay her head on my chest every night from now on.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure he is. Dude’s got serious skills.”

“I know,” she says, and I hear the immense pride.

“Stella, your ex-fiancé was a sick fuck.”

“I kind of got that impression,” she says, looking around the room. “What’s going to happen now?” she asks, looking back at me.

There’s no way on this planet I can refuse this gorgeous woman anything.

“We’ll take care of the sex trafficker, my love. Don’t you worry about him anymore—he’s through.”

“But what’s going to happen to him? I don’t want you guys to get in trouble.”

I almost laugh at that.

“Sweetheart, we know a thing or two about controlling a narrative.”

“Derek?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I love you.”

A rush of emotions take over again, but this time, they all feel like some sort of heaven, momentarily taking my breath away.

Fuck. Me.

I sure as hell own the goddess, but fuck, does she own the hell out of me.

“I love you, too, Stella.”