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Inadvertently, as he presses the button to call the elevator, raising his suitcoat with the action, I catch sight of his firm ass. It’s round, but not bubbly, and the thin fabric of his pants leaves little to the imagination. Especially when he shoves his hands into his pockets, still keeping his back to me.
I lick my lips, then snarl at myself. I need to keep my shit together. This man is my captor. He is not to be ogled or touched or anything of the sort.
In a feeble attempt to justify my actions, I recall Justine’s advice to essentially seduce the devil standing before me. But no. I refuse to succumb to temptation that shouldn’t even exist considering how I’ve been treated.
Being obedient will have to be enough. Anything else is asking for more trouble than I need. I’m sure of it.
9
LUCA
Against the advice of Jaxon and Damon, I make the necessary arrangements to relocate Olivia into my private room. I don’t think too hard on the reasons I shouldn’t do this, but rather focus on the potential benefits this decision holds.
It’s crucial for Olivia to remain within Roe compound while minimizing further disruption in my life. It’s been made clear that there are people in her life who aren’t willing to let her disappear, and Justine’s texts—acting on behalf of Olivia—aren’t seeming to pacify whoever these other women are to the witness.
To give her a modicum of freedom, I constructed the plan of having her reside in my own room. The apartment occupies the entirety of the fourth floor, excluding the compact landing outside the space, which is where we arrive once we exit the elevator.
A sleek, steel door—much like the one back at Olivia’s cell, minus the rust—has replaced my previous one, making escape for my guest futile. Using the code on the lock, I let us into the room and step aside for Olivia to enter first.
“You’re giving me a room?” she asks with disbelief and trepidation.
“No, I’m sharing my apartment with you,” I reply, keeping my voice uninterested in the matter.
Her head snaps toward me, her reaction swift and forceful. “Excuse me?”
“You will stay here until further notice,” I clarify, my words firm. “Unless, of course, you’d rather return to the cell.”
Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment, her chest heaving with an exaggerated breath. “I’d rather not go back there.”
Smirking with self-satisfaction, I reply, “I didn’t think so.”
Shrugging off my suitcoat, I drape it over the chair adjacent to my desk on the right before addressing the rest of the room. I gesture toward the obvious, like the living room right in front of us as well as the dining area where a small four-person oak table sits and my finger points at. “That is the only place you may eat. If I find crumbs in my bedroom or on the sofa, you’ll be right back in the cell.”
Her gaze scans around once again. “But no proper kitchen to make the food I’m only allowed at the table?”
“No. All meals come from downstairs,” I state matter-of-factly. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner is prepared daily by our house cook, but they only make what is necessary. We’re not wasteful, and I expect you to be considerate of that.”
“You don’t like wasting food, but you have no qualms about killing people. Got it.” Her tone is flat, and the desire to bend her over my knee is strong, but I ignore the snide comment and move on.
“My desk back there is off limits, as is my closet,” I say with authority. “You’ll have access to a dresser in the bedroom.”
She pauses in the doorway of my room, not seeming to understand the situation yet. “This doesn’t look like a guest room.”
“Because it’s not,” I say. “You will share my room with me. It’s the only way I can keep a close eye on you without remanding you in the cell. If you don’t like the thought of sleeping in the bed, feel free to pick a spot on the floor. Just know the bedding stays on thebed.”
“And what if I try to escape while you’re sleeping?” she asks with a raised brow.
“I hope you try just so you can find out the consequences of that choice,” I answer, relishing in the prospect of the punishment I would undoubtedly give her. “The only bathroom is over there.” I point to the furthest door on the left. “Anything you need should be available in the right set of drawers. Dirty towels get sent through the laundry chute.”
She glances down at her sullied clothes, plucking at her sweatshirt. “And am I supposed to stay wrapped in a towel while I wait for these to get washed?”
The thought is appealing, but I don’t intend to torture myselfthatmuch. “Clothes have been brought here from your house, and you’ll find enough of them in that dresser there.” I nod toward the new three-drawer chest.
Her voice lowers and eyes become slits. “You went into my house?”
I face her head on, countering her challenging tone. “Is that a problem?”
There seems to be an internal fight going on within her. She wants to be furious still, but something is holding her back.
