06| Caught Out.

Mia Kincaid:

After a sleepless night of loosening the stiff latch, I managed to pry the window open and carefully slip through the gap without making a sound.

The thought of marrying a man I do not love or even like makes me feel queasy. My captor told me that I must pay for the sins my father had committed against his family.

Sins, I know nothing about.

But I do know that one thing is clear, which is my mother willingly tossed me to the wolves to save their asses, and I deserve to know why.

Why me?

Does her hatred for me burn so deep into her soul that she could toss me aside like a stray kitten from her litter?

After twenty-two years, does she feel no true love towards me?

These questions have been circling my brain cells all night, and I demand to know what the hell is going on.

The sun has just risen, and as I cautiously make my way down the flimsy fence line resting against the side of the mansion, my eyes scan my surroundings.

I take cover behind the small hedge, watching the three guards circling the property and the one stationed by the gate. Any hope of me executing my plan to escape quickly turns to doubt.

“There is no way I am going to make it out of this place without being caught first,” I mutter to myself in defeat.

A silhouetted shadow suddenly casts over me, “You couldn’t even make it out of the window without getting caught, Kincaid.” A deep, heavily accented, and infuriated voice fills the air, sending a chill up my spine.

Slowly, I turn my head to meet his penetrating gaze. It looks like my soon-to-be husband was out for his morning run before he spotted me. Splashes of sweat pebble along his brows, a light shade of pink tints his cheeks, and the way his wet hair drapes over the left corner of his eye makes my hand twitch. The desire to reach forward and brush the loose curl away is almost too consuming.

He's my worst nightmare, my captor. But that doesn’t stop the traitorous flutter in my stomach…

“Shit…” I curse under my breath when I realise that I am staring at him.

“Get up!” He demands in a firm voice that instantly has me rising to my feet.

He takes one step towards me, and I take one back, almost falling over the low hedge behind me until he surprisingly saves me. He rushes forward, wrapping his long and thick fingers around my upper arms, and he pulls me flush against his damp chest.

“Jesus, woman. Be careful.” He growls with irritation.

After a moment of allowing myself to melt in his embrace, I manage to free myself from his touch, rubbing the sides of my arms as they suddenly feel like he has seared his touch into my flesh. His eyes narrow when they follow the motion of my hands, and for a second, it looks like he is about to say something, but he finger-combs his hair instead.

“Were you seriously trying to escape?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“I-uh…” Words suddenly fail me.

Widening his stance, he shoves his hands into his grey track pants pockets. “It is clear that after we spoke last night, you have chosen to rebel, and you do not care if your abi and abla live or die.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know you are the kiz of a killer.” He spits out with venom, his top lip curling with disgust.

“What are you talking about?” I raised my voice at him, frustrated and angry that he can stand in front of me and say such words about my father.

“Your baba is a cold-blooded killer. He stripped everyone important to me from my life at the tender age of nine.”

My hands curl into balls at my sides. “You’re lying.” I hiss through clenched teeth with the erratic sound of my heart beating loudly in my ears. “My father is no killer. You have the wrong man, and I will never marry you for a sin that isn’t his to pay for.” I continue to challenge him, hating the way my voice trembles.

“I am numerous things, but a liar isn’t one of them. Your baba has secrets, and those secrets have become your life sentence. If you don’t believe me, I will prove it to you.”

“How?” I ask him, biting at the verbal bait he dangles before me.

He turns his head and waves one of the guards over. “Bring my vehicle around.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I spit out, looking at him like he’s a madman.

One corner of his mouth kicks up into a cocky, lopsided grin, and he raises his brows. “You want to know the truth, don’t you?”

“Call my father. I don’t trust you enough to get in a car with you. For all I know, you could take me to an isolated area where you will have your way with me before you kill me.”

My heart stills when he tosses his head back, and a sardonic laugh pours from his throat. “Rape you?” He sneers the moment he sobers from his sudden outburst of laughter. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

I’m not going to lie. But that kind of hit a nerve.

“That might be true, but I don’t feel like dying today.”

The blissful sound of silence blankets us as we continue to glare at one another, as we are too stubborn to be the first to back down and look away.

Even when a blacked-out Mercedes approaches, the guard parks it beside my captor, who then steps out of the sedan, leaving the engine running and the driver's door ajar.

Quicker than a blink of an eye, my future husband lurches forward, wraps his fingers around my wrist, and drags me to the front passenger side of the vehicle. He opens the door and then forcefully pushes me inside before he slams it shut in my face.

“I don’t have time for your bok! (crap!). When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it.” He growls as he settles behind the steering wheel, slamming his door shut. “Put your belt on.”

“What’s the point? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

I don't understand why I am set on the thought that he is planning to kill me.

Leaning over the center console, he reaches for my belt, pulls it over my shoulders, and buckles me in. I hate that he is close. He is so close that I could stick my tongue out and taste the saltiness of his sweat.

But I don’t.

I never could…

As if he can somehow read my illicit thoughts, he slowly turns his head to look at me, and the second our gazes meet, my breath hitches. Left speechless and almost breathless, I’m unable to tear my gaze away from his - again.

“If you are going to die, I prefer it to happen with my hands, not a car accident.” He says in a hushed tone with a hint of seductiveness or pure sociopathic tendencies as his breath lightly fans my dried lips.

A plague of goose bumps erupts across my body, and I swallow the needy moan that is dying to break free back down my throat.

“Fuck you,” I manage.

I’m met with a huff of humor and a roll of his eyes. “Again, I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.” He straightens his posture behind the wheel and begins to drive.

“Ditto,” is all I manage to say before I turn away from him and look out the window.

I don’t know why, but a small part of me is scared to find out the truth behind my soon-to-be-husband’s accusation. If he is telling the truth, then I have no choice but to marry him and carry out my life sentence as his wife.