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I’d never thought about them being capable of love or fierce protectiveness.
“I’m glad he saved her,” I said after several seconds of silence.
Mateo didn’t glance over at me, and his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Even though it means you’re my hostage?” he asked, his calm tone belying his physical tension.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “This isn’t how I wanted my life to go, but if it means Valentina isn’t being abused and can be with the man she loves, I can accept what’s happening right now. It’s not like you’re being cruel to me. You’re even letting me go to my classes.” My jaw firmed, my teeth clenching as I focused the full force of my anger on the real culprit. “This is Daddy’s fault, not yours.”
Mateo relaxed, his bulky muscles going supple as he eased his hold on the steering wheel and shifted gears. “I’m glad you understand that.”Chapter 13Mateo“What classes do you have on your schedule today?” I asked to lighten the mood again. I liked when Sofia was relaxed enough to tease me. It meant she felt safe and happy in my care.
I wanted more of that.
Restraining myself from touching her this morning had taken considerable effort. By nature, I was an impulsive, greedy bastard. I’d scraped and clawed for everything I had in my life, and that habit of simply taking what I wanted through sheer force and determination had become my norm.
If I wanted to hold Sofia, my body’s first instinct was to act on that desire without hesitation.
But she’d been standoffish over breakfast. She hadn’t flinched away from me, but she hadn’t reached for me, either. Denying myself had set my teeth on edge, but I had resolutely stuck to my plan to coax her back into my arms.
Now that I’d enacted that plan to earn her trust back, my frustration abated slightly. It had only been an hour since I’d told her she could return to her classes, and we’d made stunning progress.
I would have been content enough with her playful ribbing about my car collection, but her acknowledgement that the blame for her abduction lay at her father’s feet, not mine, satisfied me to my core. I’d known that truth all along; I never would have plucked her out of her safe, easy existence, no matter how badly I’d wanted her.
Hearing her say that I was blameless for her imprisonment with me was unexpected and deeply gratifying. She trusted me over her own father.
It wouldn’t be long before she welcomed my touch again. Before she begged me to put my hands on her body.
“I took a light load this semester,” she replied, shifting into the more casual subject I’d prompted. She adapted to my desires so beautifully, naturally allowing me to guide her where I wanted. “I only have one class today: Alexander Technique.”
“Is that the name of your class or a person?” I asked, only mildly curious. I knew Sofia studied music; a fluffy degree for a girl who didn’t need a well-paying job after college. This course already sounded somewhat ridiculous.
“Both, sort of,” she replied. “Frederick Matthias Alexander developed the technique. This class teaches the best posture for peak musical performance. It helps reduce anxiety and prevent injuries.”
Definitely ridiculous.
“I didn’t realize musical pursuits were so dangerous,” I said drily.
I could practically feel her indignant glare burning a hole into my skull. I’d hoped she would read my comments as more teasing, but it seemed I hadn’t been successful in masking my disdain.
“I intend to be a professional vocalist,” she informed me tersely. “I train my instrument, just like you train your body to get all those big muscles. The Alexander Technique prevents vocal fatigue or even damage to my vocal cords that could end my career.”
“So, you want to be a pop star or something?” I asked, trying to engage in the conversation even though it still sounded awfully silly and self-indulgent.
I only succeeded in aggravating her further.
“No, I don’t want to be a pop star. But if I did, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with that.”
“I never said there was.” I tried to placate her.
“Your tone did,” she shot back. “I take my music seriously, Mateo. My program at UCLA is highly competitive, and I worked hard to get accepted. There are only twelve Music Performance majors with a focus on Voice in my year. That’s the full quota the school accepts. I earned my place in this program, and I’m not taking it for granted. I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking about it.”
“Okay,” I allowed, genuinely contrite. I still believed that a career as a singer was a frivolous pursuit only available to privileged people, but I didn’t like that I’d offended Sofia. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were so dedicated to your studies. If you don’t want to be a pop star, what does a professional vocalist do, exactly?”
