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“I… I don’t know. Brindle Path. I don’t know the address.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to speak up, please.”
He sounds bored, almost irritated with me for being too quiet.
Damn it! How am I supposed to speak up when the man who abducted me is right in the next room? Maybe you should just listen fucking harder!
Despite my desperate frustration, I try to make my whisper less muffled. It comes out in a shaky, shouty hiss.
“I’ve been abducted. I’m at a house on Brindle Path. Please, I need help!”
“Are you alone? Is anyone with you?”
My insides turn to ice when a huge gloved hand closes over mine. Elio lifts my hand, and the phone, away from my ear and holds it in front of his face, stretching my arm upward. His expression is unreadable, his voice smooth, deep, and undeniably authoritative as he says, “She’s not alone. She’s under the care of Elio Titone.”
There’s a pause on the other end. My chest hurts with the force of my heartbeat. It’s so loud I almost don’t hear the officer’s reply.
“Mr. Titone! Honour to speak with you, Sir. There’s no problem here. No problem at all. I’ll disconnect the call now and I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Elio doesn’t say anything else, and my throat constricts when the unmistakable sound of the dial tone punctuates the air. Disbelief mingles with fury. I can’t believe I’ve been abandoned by the very people who are supposed to protect me. The police.
My father.
No. I refuse to believe my father’s given up on me. He may have done something incredibly fucking stupid, but he’s clever by nature. I have to have faith that he’ll get me out of this. That he’s still the man I always thought he was. I have to.
“I told you this wouldn’t do you any good in here,” Elio says. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to smash my phone. Or maybe me. But instead, he just holds it out to me. I’m shocked by the lack of violence in the gesture but I understand instantly it isn’t one of generosity. He’s not giving me my phone back as a gift or an olive branch. He’s giving it back because he’s so fucking powerful it doesn’t matter who I contact, who I call, who I beg for help. I’m in his world now. His domain, under his rule.
She’s under the care of Elio Titone.
That’s what he said. Care. What a crock of shit.
I stare at the screen in a daze, afraid to take it and afraid not to. I don’t know what he’s thinking, what he wants right now, and I’m too exhausted to try to figure it out. When I don’t move, Elio leans forward and slides it into my pocket for me. His hand at my hip, so close to my groin, makes adrenaline jolt through me. His thick black hair is wet and messy, and the slick, curling tendrils brush my cheek. I shiver as a single drop of water rolls down to my jaw, then down my neck, making goosebumps rise. His breath is a heated fan over my skin as he draws away. He straightens and stares at me, his expression still unreadable. Bits of hair made rebellious by moisture curl over eyes like smouldering coal. He’s basically dressed the same as before just without the ear piece and shirt – wearing black dress pants and shoes and leather gloves. The leather doesn’t look wet. So he does take them off sometimes.
Once again, just like when he first took off his shirt for the doctor, I’m overwhelmed by the hard, masculine bulk of him. At first glance, the scars are what draw my eye. The slashes and deep marks, so many I can’t even count them all. Then there’s the vicious, roiling red of healed burns on his shoulder, neck, and jaw. But even with those scars, there’s a brutal, unrelenting allure in his form. The flexing of hard muscle dusted with dark hair that makes my stomach tighten involuntarily.
God, I hope the next time I see him he’s got a shirt on.
And that I have one on, too.
When his eyes dip downward, I’m reminded of just how exposed I am. His jacket is huge on me, and its done-up front button sags somewhere in the vicinity of my navel, leaving a plunging view of cleavage. Drawing the sides of the jacket together sharply, I turn and grab my violin and bow.
“You said something about a room?” I ask tersely. I don’t particularly want to see what cold, dark corner Elio plans to put me in, but at this point anything is better than being in a room with him.
His gaze shifts to the door near the bed. The one I assumed led into a closet.
“In there.”
I start to panic at the thought that I’m going to be imprisoned in a small space. A tiny, lightless closet right beside his bed. I shake my head rapidly, stumbling backwards. Elio ignores me, striding to the door and opening it.
It’s not a closet. It’s not a prison cell.
It’s beautiful.
I can’t see much from here, looking through the doorway. But what I do see takes my breath away. It’s a totally different vibe from the clean, almost minimalist feel of Elio’s room. The hardwood floor shines, polished to a rich gleam. The large bed I see from here doesn’t have a metal frame, but is one of those wooden four-poster beds I always associate with princesses in movies, piled high with heavy crimson bedding and about a dozen luxurious matching pillows with golden threads at the seams. Floor lamps on either side of the bed cast a softly shimmering glow. Elio stands beside the open door, watching me, waiting for me to go in.
There’s no way to avoid it, so I walk past him into the bedroom. The rest of it is just as lovely and sumptuous as the bed. Another door stands open, giving me a view into a glittering bathroom. I turn to look at the rest…
And freeze.
