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“He’s weak.”
“You have no idea that he’s weak.”
“Gigi, he’s currently in my trunk. That should make it obvious he’s weak.”
“And what about you? You had to kidnap me, and now, we’re what … on the run? It seems like you, my villain, are the weak one.”
“If that were true,I’dbe the one in the trunk.”
“Show me the proof he’s even in there. I don’t believe you.”
“Patience, princess.” He tsks. “As soon as we reach our destination, your fiancé will make his appearance.”
“Speaking of appearance, what the hell happened to you?”
The man who’s abducted me isn’tmy Antonio.
No, he kind of looks like hell—probably because he’s been through hell. His cheeks, which I’ve felt between my legs so many times, have more scruff than I’ve ever seen on him. Even the stubble can’t mask the exhaustion there.
The depth of his eyes holds nothing but darkness.
Hollowness.
A man who’s already lost so much and refuses to lose any more.
My poor, violent villain in black armor.
In this world of chaos, violence is how he survives.
His lifeline.
And he’s proving it.
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he turns on a desolate road, driving us farther away from the city. So I stay quiet, denying my kidnapping Romeo the satisfaction of hearing a single word slip from my lips.
A loud thud comes from the trunk when Antonio makes a sharp right. I peer at him, and any doubt he hassomeonein the trunk is gone.
But how the hell did he know about Elijah?
My father made every husband prospect sign NDAs.
I’m so in my zone that I stupidly don’t pay attention to his direction. If I were smart and not in love with my abductor, I’d pay attention to every detail to plot an escape.
We’re in the middle of nowhere when he turns down a long drive to a cabin and parks. My heart races, the reality of what’s happening finally settling into my stomach. Antonio steps out of the car, opens my door, and jerks me from my seat.
I dig my heels into the ground, resisting him from dragging me inside the cabin, and curse when one breaks.
Damn you, Prada.
He throws me over his heavy shoulder in annoyance.
I bite into his shoulder over his white button-up. He doesn’t flinch while stomping up the steps and into the cabin. I’m cursing and punching my fists against his back, and he tosses me on a sectional couch. I land on it with a similar thud as whatever—orwhoever—in his trunk.
When I attempt to spring forward, he places his hands on my chest and launches me backward. My head slams into the back of the couch, and I scowl as he towers over me.
“Don’t you dare fucking move from this couch,” he demands.
“Why are you doing this?” My throat feels scratchy and raw.
