Page 36 of Icebound

Fear danced around her nerve endings. “Fuck you,” she shot back.

He merely looked bored. “Not tonight. I’m too tired. The bed is big enough for two of us, if just barely. Do as I say.”

She wanted to protest, to plead, but he was looking implacable. And tired. She didn’t know whether she believed him or not when he said he wouldn’t touch her, but she had no choice. “Where’s the bathroom?” she demanded with little grace.

“At the end of the hall. This isn’t the Hilton.”

“You could have fooled me,” she muttered, dumping her suitcase on the bed. She was travelling with one nightgown, but she certainly wasn’t wearing it for him. She would wait until she had Bastien back before she wore it—it was too lacy and virginal for a man like Jean-Marc. Instead, she grabbed the flannel boxers and t-shirt she usually made do with. They’d both belonged to Bastien—she always raided his drawers for sleepwear—and maybe he’d recognize them. Whether he did or not, they provided loose, sexless clothing, perfect for sleeping, and she believed him when he said he had no interest in fucking. His beautiful dark eyes were shadowed, his mouth grim, and she had the good sense not to argue with him anymore.

The bathroom was tiny but adequate, with a separate shower room, and she made herself ready for bed, wishing she dared take a shower. If she knew…Jean-Marc…he’d come right in and get her. She padded back down the dark hallway, her discarded clothes over her arm, and opened the door.

He was wearing the boxer briefs—at least that didn’t remind her of what once was. Bastien slept naked, his warm skin pressed against hers. The bed that had looked roomy when she first came in now looked positively tiny, and Bastien was a big man. She was no sylph either. It was going to be a cozy night.

“I can sleep on the floor,” she announced as she closed the door behind her.

“You can sleep in the bed,” he replied, and for a moment, her heart leaped in gratitude, only to come crashing down when he added “with me. Lock the door.”

She was reluctant to do so—it would make it that much harder to escape if she needed to. Who was she kidding—he would catch her by the stairs. There was no escape in sight.

She climbed into the bed, trying to make herself as small as possible, clinging to one side of the mattress. Bastien made a derisive sound and turned off the light as he got in on the other side, and he was everywhere around her, and she thought back to her cousin Emmy’s house, where she and Bastien would share a smaller bed. She’d always enjoyed it, pressed up against him, but now this was a travesty. She tried to edge away from him, but there was no bed left.

“You’ll end up on the floor if you move any farther away.” His bored voice came from out of the dark.

“Good. I can sleep there,” she shot back.

“I’ve already told you you’re sleeping with me. I suggest you don’t try my temper anymore. I’m not the most patient of men.”

She couldn’t help it, she snorted. Fortunately, he didn’t take any action, and she tried to will her body to relax. It wasn’t a strange man intent on molesting her, it wasn’t Flambeau with the brutal hands. It was Bastien, whether he knew her or not.

And he smelled like Bastien, that ineffable quality that she loved so much. It lured her, and it took everything she had to keep still. She was still clinging to the side of the bed, and she could feel him behind her, feel his long legs brush up against hers.

“Relax, chérie,” he said, more an order than a suggestion. “I’m not going to rape you. I just want to sleep, and I can’t if you’re lying there stiff as a board.”

“I can’t,” she said. It was a mistake. He pulled her into his arms, and she was too surprised to fight. Tucking his body around hers, he spooned her, his arms holding her in place, and she knew she should struggle. But her body recognized Bastien’s, even if her mind was protesting, and the tension drained from her.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. Except he wasn’t seducing her. “You should stop fighting me. It will do you no good except make me angry, and you really don’t want to make me angry.”

He was right about that, she thought reluctantly. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t Bastien, not the Bastien she knew.

“Why do you need me?” she dared to ask him. “Why don’t you just let me go somewhere far away? I won’t tell anyone about you.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Of course you won’t, chérie. But you don’t really want to go, do you? I’m the closest thing to your missing husband, and you’re infatuated.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’re a criminal who’s holding me hostage,” she snapped.

“Ever hear of Stockholm Syndrome?”

Chloe felt like she’d been punched in the gut as memories came flooding back. He’d teased her about Stockholm Syndrome when they were first together and running for their lives. They’d even named their first child Swede.

“Stockholm Syndrome is a myth,” she said sharply. “Women do not fall in love with their abductors.”

“If you say so, chérie.” There was amusement in his voice, and she wanted to punch him. He’d taken a cherished memory and perverted it, and she wanted to slam her elbow into his hard stomach.

But maybe it was something else. Maybe he was just beginning to recognize the bond between the two of him, and his subconscious had reminded him of their old game. Maybe his memory was slowly coming back.

He seemed in an unexpectedly sanguine mood, and she decided to push it. “Why do you want me?” she asked.

“You’ve got a great ass and beautiful breasts and⁠—”