Captive Souls Read Online Anne Malcom

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

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Instead of reacting the way I expected, the corner of his mouth twitched in what could almost be described as a smirk.

“I’m not afraid of your marks on my skin, Piper.”

There! A flash of heat. Want. I was sure of it.

My intestines plunged toward the floor, and that wantonness I thought I’d assuaged came back with the heat of a thousand suns.

I struggled to keep my composure. What would he do if I jumped on him right now? If I plastered my lips on his and climbed him like a tree? It was so taboo, so wrong, so tempting to give in to base desires when there was no one watching, where I felt free from the shackles of any civilized arrangements.

That’s why I was there, wasn’t it? Stripped away from all semblances of appearance that our world operated under law and order. That I was safe.

It had been proven. I was not safe. Not even while running in broad daylight. Not while attending my sister’s birthday party.

And wasn’t I sick of living with that fear? Running from it? Yet when that fear was embodied in Knox, I wanted to sink into it, indulge in it.

Then my bladder alerted me to other baser needs my body required.

Thankfully.

“I need to pee.” I was still looking into lifeless eyes that mercifully couldn’t read my mind.

Knox blinked at my words but didn’t step aside. He just stood there. Staring. I resisted the urge to shift my weight from foot to foot.

My bladder clenched uncomfortably, but I resolved to stand my ground. I wasn’t going to beg him to move, nor was I going to release my bladder in front of him—even though the need was quite urgent.

There it was, another power play. Him showing he was in charge of my every need, that he could stop me from the basic act of relieving myself with dignity. More white-hot hatred melted away whatever insane salacity I was feeling moments ago. The rapidly changing, visceral feelings were giving me heartburn.

I was not prone to wild mood swings or emotions. I left that to my sister. My job was to be around a bunch of unregulated kindergarteners all day. And though I was paid to teach them, those children really just needed a stable, emotionally regulated adult in order to feel safe. I prided myself on having that ability—not born from my job but certainly honed by it. I’d forced myself to be emotionally stable amidst a terribly unsettling home life. I’d had to when I took it upon myself to take care of my sister, show her that chaos was not everywhere. That peace existed.

Yet there, in the cabin, Knox teased the chaotic darkness out of me with an expert hand. In his presence, peace was nothing but a concept floating in the wind.

Finally, fortunately, he stepped aside.

Again, I resisted the urge to run to the toilet.

Straightening my spine, I looked him square in the face. “You are not as powerful as you think you are.” I was completely bluffing and likely laughable to him, but I needed something borderline threatening to say.

Then I calmly walked the handful of steps to the bathroom, noisily closing the door behind me.

Knox

I’d been physically unable to move while staring at her. Her features were etched with need. Now that I knew what she looked like at the peak of orgasm, I could recognize small markers. The way her plump lips separated, the way her cheeks flushed with color, the spark in her eyes. Her small hands clenching and unclenching. All of it told me she was again thinking of whatever she had been thinking about earlier.

Me, perhaps?

By process of deduction, it was me who was eliciting this response in her.

I was no stranger to women finding me attractive. I knew, upon first glance, I could be construed that way. But when given more than a first glance, women usually found what was lurking underneath. The uncanny valley effect kicked in. They couldn’t put their finger on it, but their instincts told them that I wasn’t quite human and that they needed to run.

A small few did not listen to instinct, were romanced by the idea that I was inhuman, thanks to idiotic popular culture of women romanticizing killers. But I soon set that straight. There was nothing romantic about me.

No one had seen my true nature, the demon beneath, and found anything attractive about that wretched, evil beast.

There was obviously some trauma at play. Stockholm syndrome. Or Piper was shockingly calculated and much more adept at fooling me than I’d ever imagined. Which, if that was the case, only made her more fucking attractive.

But my instincts told me that it wasn’t an act. That Piper was having a visceral reaction to me that she was fighting with her own body.


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