Little Darling Read Online Jenika Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Insta-Love, Kink, Novella Tags Authors: Jenika Snow Advertisement

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Etched into my skin in elegant black script was a single word.

Lars.

I stared in disbelief at the tattoo.

Oh my God. He tattooed me. He all but branded me in the sense that I was his property.

My fear made way for anger, churning with more ferocity the longer I stared at the ink. Before I knew what I was doing, I was screaming out as loud as I could. All my anger and fear and sadness came rushing to the surface.

I was still screaming when the door crashed open. I glared in incredulity and female rage at the man—at the monster.

I didn’t need him to tell me his name to know what it was. He’d permanently etched it into my flesh like I was fucking cattle.

Lars stepped inside, his muscular, imposing frame filling the doorway. He had his dark eyes trained on me, his expression unreadable, as he stepped farther inside and shut the door behind him.

In his hands was a wooden tray that held plated food and a glass of water. My stomach clenched in a mixture of nausea and hunger as I smelled the eggs, ham, and toast.

“You're awake,” he said in a calm voice, but his sarcasm was clear.

Obviously, I was awake. I’d just been screaming.

I didn’t respond, just scooted backward on the bed, as he came closer and set the tray on the bedside table, moving my book and glasses to the opposite side, his movements unhurried, his focus never leaving me.

I couldn't find my voice, even though I’d just been crying out to the heavens seconds before. My gaze darted between him and the door, calculating my chances of getting past him and escaping. But my body still felt a little heavy, and my fear made my limbs uncooperative.

“Why am I here?” I finally asked. But I had a hell of a lot of other fucking questions on my mind. I swallowed, my throat dry and tight, and that glass of water was looking really good right about now.

As if he read my thoughts or saw the thirst on my face, he grabbed the glass and held it out it to me.

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

“Be as stubborn as you want.” His voice was low and deep, his accent American. “But you're not going anywhere, so you’ll either starve to death or eat and drink what I give you.” He pushed the glass closer, his expression hard. Firm. “The faster you drink this, the sooner I can get you another one to flush out the sedative.”

It was as if his saying those words made me thirstier. I figured if he wanted to drug me again, he wouldn’t need to spike my drink. He’d just stab me in the neck with another needle, which I now remembered him doing so stealthily. I took the glass and moved right, scooting sideways on the bed before climbing off of it. At least the mattress was between us, yet I was even farther from the only escape.

I drank the water so fast I choked on it. He took the empty glass and left, but before I could make a move toward the door, he was back with the glass refilled. I snatched it away and drank that one, too, and when I finished, I exhaled at how good it felt to no longer be thirsty.

He moved over to the chair pressed to the wall and dragged it across the wooden floor, the legs scraping loudly in the room. He picked up the tray of food and set it on the mattress between us before he took a seat on that side.

When I didn’t go for the food, despite getting hungrier as the time passed, and I didn’t say a word, he finally leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head and said, “I brought you here because I wanted you. You’re mine, and we belong together.”

I took a few seconds to really look at him. His hair was short and dark, his eyes just as black, almost bottomless. He wore a plaid, long-sleeved button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the first few buttons were undone at the collar. I could see a sprinkling of dark chest hair on the exposed skin.

“It's safer this way… to have you here with me.”

I felt a wave of incredulous anger fill me. “Safer?” My voice was flat. “You—” I inhaled deep and long and exhaled just as slowly. I glanced down at my wrist, holding it up as evidence, my flesh throbbing and sore. “How am I safer with you when you’re the one who did this to me?” My voice, although emotionless, was rising.

He stared at my wrist, and the bastard had the audacity to have a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, not saying it like a question. The motherfucker was proud of himself for what he’d done to me.

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