Owned (Office Intrigue Book 8) by Nicole Edwards (year 2 reading books TXT) 📗

whimper as I continued to back toward my bedroom—to my escape route—desperate to get away from him.

Clearly believing he had the upper hand, he took his time closing and locking the door, continuing to hold that gun level with my head. “Where do you think you’re going, doll face?”

Doll face?

Oh, God, no.

No, no, no.

The man smiled, his perfectly straight teeth flashing. “Miss me?”

Even as I fell, catching myself with my hands, I watched him as he stalked me. I didn’t recognize his face, but that was because I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years. But I remembered that voice, the way he used to call me doll face. It had creeped me out at the time, more so now.

I levered myself up, backed up, never looking away from the face that had once appeared in my nightmares.

Suddenly, my cell phone began ringing, which distracted me momentarily, had me pausing briefly before my fight-or-flight instinct shut out the sound.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, doll face. Don’t you know that by now?” A sneer formed as his eyes raked over me. “Damn, but you look good. I bet that body’s all tight and hot now, huh? Mmm. Happy New Year to me.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. The only thing I knew was that I had to put something between us. A wall, a building, a million miles. Something.

“You remember me, don’t you, doll face? Your future husband.” He smiled, but it was creepy. “Long time coming and I am so eager to get to the consummating.”

When he lowered the gun, I exhaled heavily and took the final two steps to my bedroom. As soon as I cleared the threshold, I tried to slam the door. I wasn’t fast enough, his arm sliding in to keep it from closing. It took all my strength just to keep him from barging in. Had there been hardwood and not carpet, it would’ve been futile, but I had a bit of leverage.

While I held my ground, putting my full weight into the door, my eyes went wild, searching for a weapon. Anything.

Oh, my God. If he got in… I knew exactly what he’d do to me.

I glanced left, right.

Something.

Anything.

That was when I saw it.

The metal tiger sculpture Ransom had gotten me. The one from my desk at work. I’d left it in my purse, and it was sitting on the small dresser. It wouldn’t do any real damage, but it was heavy.

I twisted around, pressing my shoulder and knee into the door as I grabbed the statue.

“Might as well give up, doll face. We both knew it was inevitable that I’d find you.” He laughed, and I was fairly certain that was insanity dripping from it. “It’s almost amusing how easy your brother made it.”

Not too easy, obviously, since it’d been fifteen years, but whatever.

Swallowing hard, I gripped the statue in my fist, contemplated my actions for a few seconds then … using all the strength I could muster, I slammed it down on his wrist, once, twice… I kept hitting him until finally I heard the horrific sound of bone crunching.

A terrible shout sounded from the other side of the door as he yanked his arm back, clearly in pain.

It gave me the scant few seconds I needed to slam the door shut and flip the lock.

Cursing followed, along with a litany of things he intended to do to me when he got in. None of them pleasant.

I knew the flimsy lock wouldn’t hold long, but I didn’t need but a second. After all, I had planned for this. Ransom had insisted that I did. Hence the reason I had one of the fire escape ladders sitting on the floor just below my bedroom window. I’d actually run through the routine more than once—to the amusement of my neighbors—so I had it down pat.

It took me under thirty seconds—a new record—to get the window up, the ladder rolled down from the second floor. I wasted no time, practically diving out as I raced toward the ground below.

I managed to dash around the side of the building when the shouting and cursing echoed out into the bitterly cold night.

That was when I ran.

*

TALON

If one was ever in the market for a decent party with a flair for debauchery and domination, I would highly suggest one of TJ Arlington’s social functions. The man, whose claim to fame included a series of highly rated fiction books related to romanticized BDSM, didn’t while away his days only having glorified fictional intercourse. No, in his spare time, TJ was tending to the real thing, keeping himself busy with his harem of female playthings, showing them off to any and all who would join him.

Personally, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about, but I couldn’t deny I was a rare breed who’d somehow ended up on the periphery of this fetish-fueled social scene. Unlike TJ, I could do without the drama. It did nothing for me. Yet like most events I was invited to, I’d reluctantly agreed to attend, now mingling with Chicago’s lustful and licentious upper echelon.

As I moved through TJ’s elaborately decorated mansion, which had received an overhaul just for this occasion, sipping ridiculously expensive champagne, I had to admit it wasn’t as horrific as I’d expected. Except for the opulent furnishings and decor, it wasn’t much different than the club scene, in my opinion. A myriad of scantily clad submissives waiting on the guests, males and females who labeled themselves as Dominants sharing stories, catching up on the goings-on outside of the scene, and feasting on food set out on the naked bodies designated to play the role of dishes this evening.

Every so often, I would nod, acknowledging someone I’d encountered at one time or another. Most refused to approach me, having come to learn I had not completely mastered the art of social niceties. I had absolutely no desire to discuss the latest trends in fashion or food, nor did