Captive Souls Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Dark, Suspense Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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“Not to be won or owned,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I like that.” He leaned in so our bodies almost brushed. I held my breath.

“But I’ll look forward to proving you wrong. You will be won. And owned.”

The statement was ridiculous, considering we’d only exchanged a few words. It was overly intimate, cocky and just … wrong.

It took everything in me not to bite out something else—obviously, my snark did not deter him, it interested him. I didn’t flinch away either. There was no need to show weakness since that would likely excite him too.

I held my ground, looked him in the eyes and tried to communicate that I would not be worth his while.

After a few tense moments that felt like eons, he stepped back, straightening his suit and smiling at me. The expression was slick, satisfied, somehow victorious, as if he knew something I didn’t.

“I’ll be seeing you, Piper Matthews,” he promised.

Then he was gone.

“Not if I see you first,” I muttered.

I didn’t even find out his name until later. Stone De Luca.

Admittedly a badass name.

But it didn’t sway me, not even with the knowledge of his vast wealth from Daisy, who had urged me to go on the date with him after he sent a designer dress, roses and a note with a time and place to meet him.

To her, the gesture was romantic, right out of one of her romance novels.

To me, it was controlling, possessive and waved every red flag in the book.

I sent the dress back—which had Daisy almost in tears, as she worshiped at the altar of couture—with a polite note saying I was busy.

I’d hoped it was enough.

There was a little voice inside of me telling me it wasn’t. That for whatever reason, this man eyed me as a prize, and that he was used to winning.

And it didn’t stop. There were more lavish gifts, more invitations. Phone calls. Enough to make me sick.

And it did. I’d spent days unable to eat, sleep, my body tense, feeling as if I was essentially being stalked.

I’d done what I thought was the most logical thing in an admittedly crazy situation. I’d said yes to a dinner so I could speak to him face-to-face and gently explain that I wasn’t interested.

I didn’t wear the dress he sent, yet another one. But it was lovely. Blood-red, buttery fabric that I just knew would fit me like a glove. And the shoes. Red-soled, leather, delicate straps crisscrossing up my thighs. Sky high. They’d be uncomfortable. Same with the dress. Beautiful but constricting. Made to contain me.

I didn’t bother to think about how he’d known my sizes. It was too scary.

Instead of the dress and heels, I’d worn black jeans, low-heeled boots and a cashmere sweater. A little underdressed for the fancy restaurant but not in an offensive manner. Just enough to make a statement.

I’d expected Stone to take it as an insult, a mark against me—it’s what I’d wanted, after all. But he’d merely smiled, leaning in to kiss the side of my cheek, too close to my mouth.

I was frozen still until he pulled back.

“You’d look stunning in the dress I sent, but this is fine too.” I tried not to grimace when he looked me up and down as he pulled the chair out for me.

My teeth gnashed together as I fought against the slimy feeling of his presence and the thin spike of fear shooting up my spine.

I’d done as much research as I could do on Stone De Luca. I was a kindergarten teacher with friends who were teachers, receptionists, graphic designers, stay at home moms. None of them were ‘in the know.’ I didn’t have connections anywhere. All I had was a laptop and an internet connection.

Searching Stone’s name didn’t tell me who exactly he was, but the news stories about him and the businesses he owned gave me the sense that he was a dangerous man. Nothing outright saying he was a mobster, except for one journalist who had gone so far as to write a scathing piece on his control of the ports.

That journalist had gone missing two weeks after the story went to print.

I might’ve been a little too interested in true crime and somewhat of a sensationalist, but I knew that Stone had something to do with the disappearance.

And if I didn’t tread carefully, that could be me. Every instinct I had screamed that at me. I refused to succumb to my mother’s fate.

“I’m not a doll you can dress up and prop up in chairs,” I informed him after he sat across from me.

Tread carefully, my inner voice reminded me.

Stone chuckled again, leaning over to pour wine from a decanter into my glass. “Ah, you are no doll. Even though you are as perfect as one,” he said, the liquid sloshing as red as blood.


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