The door opens, as if on cue, and he’s standing there with a pile of clothes in one hand and his gun in the other. He tosses the clothing at me, a light lob that has me scrambling because it’s so unexpected. I almost lose my towel, but I manage to catch what he’s brought me, a pair of men’s pajama pants that thankfully have a drawstring and a crisp white T-shirt.
“Thanks,” I tell him as he slams the door closed.
Well, then.
I extend my middle finger toward the camera mounted overhead, and then I head back to the bathroom. Once there, I slip into the shirt and pajama pants. They’re soft and made of black silk. I tuck in the shirt and tighten up the drawstring to keep the waist from sliding down. Not the best look I’ve ever rocked, but this isn’t a fashion show. I’m a captive. I comb my fingers through my damp hair as best as I can before heading back out, wishing I had a brush.
Almost the second I’m out of the bathroom, Scorpion is whipping open the bedroom door.
He motions with his Glock. “Come on.”
A new tenseness is radiating off him, a dangerous edge. I decide not to press my luck and bite my tongue to keep from blurting the snarky response I had for him. He’s going to feed me, I’ve just showered, and I’m not wearing handcuffs. I need to focus on that and get back to plotting my plan of escape.
I’ve been trapped here in this cabin with him for two nights, and I’m not sure I’ll survive a third. I need my apartment, my work. I need to move, to be free. I need to get as far from this lethal man’s presence as possible. To forget all about him.
A salad is waiting for me at the kitchen island. My stomach growls at the sight of the leafy greens. There’s even a hunk of bread on a plate. I love carbs. Carbs, sadly, do not love me. But right now, only an act of nature is going to keep me from sinking my teeth into that gorgeous, crusty slice.
I settle onto the stool without his orders, hooking my bare feet in the cold metal rungs, and grab the bread first.
“Who said that was for you?” he asks.
I’m already taking a bite. I wouldn’t put it past him to offer me dog kibble and then eat the salad and bread in front of me, but something tells me that this lunch was actually prepared for me.
By Andriani.
The bread is fucking delicious.
And fresh.
“You baked this?” I ask around a mouthful of yeasty goodness.
“No, the tooth fairy did.”
I roll my eyes but don’t bother saying anything else, because I’m too busy hoovering up the bread like a starving woman lost on a deserted island who’s just been picked up by a cruise ship and taken to the buffet. There’s no way he was out here making bread and kneading it, so I can only assume this came out of a freezer, but there’s also no doubt about it that it’s homemade.
Who made the bread dough? And the meatballs? I finish the bread and look up to find him watching me. His Glock is tucked away, and he’s leaning against the counter behind him, arms crossed over his dress shirt. It’s not the first time I’ve caught myself wondering if this insanely beautiful, lethal man hassomeone waiting for him at home. Someone who bakes bread and makes the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted.
He’s watching me, face an expressionless mask.
“What?” I ask him, aware that my manners are appalling.
But I’ve been held against my will by a Mafia enforcer with a bad attitude and eyes that see through me. I’m wearing his clothes. I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next five minutes. And I don’t care if he thinks I’m rude. I have no one here to impress.
“Nothing,” he says coldly. “We’ve got to get going, so hurry up.”
“Going?” That has me straightening on my stool. “Where?”
Is this the part where he leads me to a shallow grave? Is this my final meal? If so, the bread is pretty good but not to die for. And I’d rather have those out-of-this-world meatballs than the salad. My heart starts pounding, anxiety creeping back into my chest.
“You don’t need to worry about where,” he says. “Just eat.”
I pick up the fork, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you hear from Misha?”
“Nope.”
He pops the p, and my gaze is stupidly drawn to his lips. He has the nicest mouth I’ve ever seen on a man. Too bad it’s wasted on him. I fork up a bite of leafy greens to distract myself. This man is my jailer, my kidnapper. A monster hidden beneath a handsome face and a ten-thousand-dollar suit. I amnotthinking about how it would feel to have those lips pressed against mine.
I stuff the fork into my mouth. The salad is dressed in some kind of tangy vinaigrette that tastes like herbs, garlic, and citrus. Like everything else he’s fed me so far, it’s pretty damn good.
