His other hand caught her hair and wrenched her head back at a painful angle. Then he kissed her fully, brutally, with such appalling intensity and hostility that it shriveled her insides.
Shoving her away, he strode toward the door.
True to his word, he didn’t fuck her.
He’d hurt her.
“Tommy.” She seethed with contempt and panic. “Let me go!”
He shut off the light and left her quivering in the dark by calculated intent.
CHAPTER 13
Rylee lay in the dark, listening to male voices drift in from the front room. Cole had returned, and no one had come to check on her. Hunger only scratched the surface of her misery.
The welts on her backside throbbed. The restraints on her arms prevented her from pulling up her pajama pants and cleaning away the damp reminder of her arousal. Tommy had deliberately left her in this position, knowing she would squirm in discomfort and despise herself as much as she despised him.
What sane woman craved the touch of a cruel man? She couldn’t even claim Stockholm syndrome because she’d known him for ten years, had willingly put herself in this situation, and felt absolutely no positive feelings toward him.
Except for this sick, sexual attraction.
She needed to get far, far away from him before she lost her damn mind.
He and Cole spoke in low murmurs, too muted for her ears. They were probably going through her duffel bag and dissecting all the messages, apps, and private activity on her phone.
Hopefully, their intrusive investigation would prove she wasn’t connected to Paul Kissinger.
How had she not known she was being followed for six months? As frightening as that was, if the person who’d hired Paul wanted to kill her, she would already be dead.
Ironically, this had all began on the one night she’d actually wished for death. Tommy had inadvertently saved her life on that bridge, and now, a decade later, he was intent on destroying it.
Too bad she didn’t have the training to negotiate her way out of this. But criminal psychologists were not effective as negotiators.
First off, if she attempted to counsel him, no matter how subtle her technique, he would know what she was doing and rage against the implication that he was crazy.
Secondly, therapy was not the same as negotiation. Therapeutic intervention took months or years to achieve positive growth and relief from suffering. She was no longer interested in helping him grow past his trauma. Her only goal now was escaping as quickly as possible.
Thirdly, he wasn’t mentally ill. He didn’t have bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. He was a sane man, a ruthless vigilante, who knew no bounds and harbored a blatant disregard for laws and authority.
Hours must’ve passed, and at some point, she fell asleep.
When she woke, Tommy was in bed with her.
Morning light filtered into the bedroom through the open doorway, illuminating the hard, sinewy arm that rested on her hip like an iron bar.
Her pants had been put back in place, and even more surprising, her hands were free.
She lay on her side, turned into him for some reason. All she could see was a flat nipple and taut, tanned skin stretched over the ridges of a chiseled chest.
Her pulse accelerated, her joints frozen. Had he slept here all night? Was he sleeping now?
His hand moved, fingers ghosting along her back. She stiffened.
Swallowing past the resentment in her throat, she tilted back her head and locked onto alert, golden eyes.
“Why did you sleep in here?” she asked, suspicious.
“The other bed was taken.”
“So was this one.”
“While I despise the sight of you, I’d rather sleep beside you than the sweaty, bearded bastard in the other room.” He lowered his hand to her backside and squeezed the abused muscle. “How’s your ass feel this morning?”
“Fine.” She resisted the impulse to jerk away and give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Liar.” He gave her a light smack on the butt and rose from the bed. “Go take a shower.”
He strode out of the room, wearing workout shorts that hung so low on his hips she could see two deep dimples near the crease of his firm butt.
No one should look that sexy after just waking up. Especially not the motherfucker who was responsible for the stitching pain in her stomach.
How many days had it been since she’d eaten? Four? It felt like forty, and her strength was paying for it. Any escape attempt right now would be laughable. Hence the reason he’d removed the handcuffs.
The room spun as she wobbled toward the bathroom. The only reason she wanted another shower was to wash off the remnants of last night’s arousal. She couldn’t let that happen again.
Today, she would find a way to leave.
Fresh clothes—taken from her truck—waited for her on the vanity. No undergarments, but there was a tube of ointment. She glanced at the label, realizing it was meant for her welts.