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“Be a good girl and make yourself at home.” I can barely stand. My cheeks warm to inferno levels. I feel like I’m on fire. And by the way his lip tips up, he sees it too.
Luckily for me, he can’t see the other reactions my body is having to his words.
The way my heart beats a bit faster in my chest. Fluttering like an excited swarm of bees who just found a new flower fully bloomed. The way my face warms as he praises me. Hopefully, he doesn’t see how my body trembles. Or worse, how my nipples pebble against my top.
A part of me wonders if I should just listen to him. Make myself comfortable and choose a movie to get lost in. I can always search for points of exit later. I need my strength after all, and maybe a day of relaxation would do me well.
More than anything, I want to talk to him. To dig deeper into this man and his empire.
I know I said I’d wait for him to be arrested before I asked about my brother, but I can’t help it. The urge to speak when his guard seems to be down and his temper back under control is intense.
“I’ll let you get to your work and keep myself busy, but…”
His finger plays with the one loose strand of hair that fell in front of my face, and I’m momentarily distracted by the tenderness of the action.
I want him to stop, but at the same time, I don’t.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I hate the way I react to the gesture, but it’s like I’m trapped in quicksand. The harder I want to pull away, the more encased I become.
I let out a breath, and his eyes drop to my mouth. Nervously, I bite my lip, a habit I’ve always had. He tracks the movement, and I don’t miss how his throat bobs.
My heart is racing, but I keep still, willing myself to remain calm.
“But?” he prompts, and for a moment, I’m not sure what he’s asking me.
“Oh, I…wanted to talk.” The words are awkward and unsure, and I’m internally kicking myself.
“Is that so? I didn’t think you wanted to be anywhere near me,” he says with a smirk that I want to wipe off his handsome face.
“Forget it. I don’t want to talk to you,” I huff, and he full-on smiles.
“What, pray tell, did you want to talk about?”
I wait a beat, trying to determine whether I should refuse to answer and drop the subject for now, but my hesitation doesn’t last, and the words are blurted out without another thought.
“My brother. I still want to talk about Roman. That hasn’t changed.”
At my words, his hand drops, and he takes a step back. My irrational mind misses the loss at once. I want to step forward and close the space, but I shut that thought down as fast as it pops into my head.
Jeez, Sasha, is it possible to get Stockholm syndrome in one day?
He’s not kidnapping you, you idiot.
Well, not technically. But he’s not allowing me to leave, either.
My internal monologue has me questioning my damn sanity. I’m losing my grip, which doesn’t bode well for trying to escape. I need my wits about me.
“I don’t want to talk about Roman,” he grits out.
His swift denial rubs me the wrong way, and anger rises. How dare he keep me here and refuse to give me more answers? He claims I’m not a prisoner, but his actions say otherwise.
I take a deep breath and temper the rising anger bubbling inside me that’s threatening to explode.
Gideon needs to think I’m agreeable. That way, he lets his guard down.
I’m probably being stupid for escaping, but no way am I blindly giving up my life without answers.
